And The Ground Shook
by sams1ra
Summary: John is faced with his worst nightmare. And now he has to fix everything. One thing's for sure, Dean is NEVER hunting solo again... Preseries.
1. The Ground Shifts

And the Ground Shook

A/N: Pre series, AU. Not a deathfic. Lots of Dean-bashing, though. Un-beta-ed, all mistakes are mine, sorry about that...

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the boys, I don't own Supernatural, I don't even own the DVDs yet...

**Warning**: Language.

Chapter One – The Ground shifts

John sat on the couch, flicking through channels on the TV, though he never stopped on one channel long enough to actually see what was on. He hated morning shows anyway. He checked his watch again. 9:41. _Dean was in trouble, that's for sure_, he thought to himself, changing the channel again.

Somewhere in the kitchen, John could hear his fifteen year old son having breakfast. A couple of minutes later, Sam shuffled into the small living room/second bedroom.

"Dad, we're out of milk." He said. John clenched his jaw, flicking channels. "And cereal, too. And I'm pretty sure we're low on bread." Sam added.

"Then why won't you go to the store and get some?" John asked through clenched teeth. _This wasn't Sammy's fault_, he had to remind himself. For once, it wasn't Sam he was angry at.

"When's Dean coming home?" Sam asked, ignoring the forewarning signs of his father's fraying nerves.

"What do I look like, a psychic?" John snapped, and then half-turned to look at the teen. "And aren't you supposed to be at school, anyway?" he asked.

"But he was supposed to be here last night." Sam protested, "He said Sunday night at the latest. What's taking him so long?"

"You know your brother," John grumbled, returning his attention back to the TV, "probably got all twisted around chasing some tail last night." He clipped. "Tell you what, if he's not back here by noon, you can have his car." The teen smiled at that.

"Can I have that in writing?" he asked. John scowled at him.

"Sam, school!" he snapped.

"But I want to wait until he gets here." Sam protested. "Fine, _fine_…" he sighed in that teenager way that just grated on John's nerves every time. John checked his watch again. 9:45. Oh yeah, Dean was in trouble.

His eldest was supposed to be home last night, and not too late at that. John had little doubt that the hunt went well. It was just a poltergeist, after all. Dean's killed a dozen of those by the time he was Sammy's age. It wasn't even the first time he's done it on his own, and though something in the pit of John's stomach always twisted whenever Dean went on a solo hunt, the boy _was_ old enough. He was more than capable to deal with a poltergeist, even on his own.

John hadn't planned on letting him go on his own, but Dean wore him out eventually. That boy could talk someone's ear off if he set his mind to it. So, John had let him go on his own. That had been a week ago. The ride alone should take a couple of days in each direction, John knew, and having some time on his own must have been part of the appeal for Dean. It wasn't the first time his son was taking his sweet time on a hunt. John knew there was nothing to worry about. Dean probably needed to let out some steam, or he wouldn't be so quick to volunteer to go on this hunt on his own.

John took a deep breath, trying to relax, and settled on the Discovery channel. It was either that, or that Ricky Lake chick, and he hated those shows. Well, Oprah he could stand. Sometimes. If there was absolutely nothing else to do. And he was sticking to that story.

He looked at his watch again. 9:47. Nothing to worry about. Dean probably got lazy once the job was done and decided to sleep in. Probably had a very late night, too, if John knew his son. Nothing to worry about.

9:48. That does it. Dean's not allowed to hook up with a chick anymore until he's forty! Well, okay, thirty, because he _did_ just turn twenty, and even John's not _that_ cruel. But he's totally giving Sam the car if Dean isn't back by noon.

"Dad, he should have called by now, shouldn't he?" Sam asked the question John didn't dare speak out loud. Dean was the reliable one, after all. He usually called once the job was over. They hadn't heard from him in four days now.

"You should be in school by now, shouldn't you?" John snapped.

"But I…"

"Sam!" he was perturbed. No way would John admit it, but he was nervous as hell. He hadn't slept in two days. The fact that Dean was now twenty years old did not mean that John stopped worrying about him. Being a "grown up" didn't mean there wasn't a big, scary world out there, and John had every right to be apprehensive.

He kept telling himself Dean needed this, needed some time on his own. Hell, John went out on a few hunts himself to cool down. After all, three men living in a tiny apartment or motel room, always in each other's faces… Sometimes they needed their time apart, that's for sure. Still, it's time to get Dean a cell phone.

9:49.

And then the phone rang. Sam started toward it, but John was closer. His hand darted to the phone, quickly picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Good morning," John couldn't help but roll his eyes. This woman was just way too perky to be calling him. He clenched his jaw. "This is the operator speaking. You have a collect call from –" and then there was a click, and John could hear Dean's voice. He gritted his teeth and was about to start yelling when another click sounded and the way too cheerful operator was back. "Would you accept the charges?" she asked. A collect call? Well that could explain a few things. Dean's probably lost all his money, and if John had to guess, it was probably on a woman. Either that, or Dean was in jail again.

"Yes." John answered.

"Well, alright then. Have a nice day!" The operator said perkily, and transferred the call.

"Hello?" John tried to control the anger in his voice. Dean has some explaining to do.

"Dad?"

"Dean? Where the hell are you?" John snapped, "You were supposed to be here last night!" he yelled when his son failed to answer.

"Dad,"

"You in jail?" John demanded. There was a brief moment of silence and John cursed inwardly. Great. Just what he needed. Can't Dean keep his mouth shut and his attitude in check and fly under the radar just once? "Dean, I asked you a question." He snapped.

"Dad…"

"Are you in jail?" John pressed.

"No." There was a breathless quality to Dean's voice, something John's brain registered, but couldn't quite put a finger on.

"Then you get your ass back here, now." John snapped, "You were supposed to be here last night, young man, you're in some serious…"

"Dad…" Dean stopped him, his voice strangely weak, almost strangled, and it stopped John from talking. For a moment, all John could hear was his son breathing on the other end of the line, small, shallow gasps, and John found himself thinking _God, I hope he's with a girl right now_, because any other reason for his boy to sound this breathless involved him being hurt, and John couldn't stand that thought. And then Dean spoke again. "Dad, help." And John froze. Dean's voice was small, and breathless and _weak_, and it sent the father's heart racing as fear crept over him.

John swallowed hard, taking a deep, calming breath. "Dean?"

"Dad… help…" Dean was wheezing now, and a million and one scenarios ran through John's mind. Dean would never be calling him for help, his son had too much pride to show any kind of weakness. For Dean to be calling him, asking for help, sounding so small and weak… It stole John's breath away.

"Dean, where are you?" John demanded, a hint of urgency creeping into his voice.

"Dad?" John frowned, "Dad, please…"

"Dean, where are you?" John repeated, more slowly this time, trying to get the tremor out of his voice. Sam was talking to him, asking, demanding to know what's going on, what's wrong. John turned his back on him. There wasn't time to deal with Sammy right now, not when he had no idea what was wrong with Dean, or even where he was.

"Dad, help…" Dean pleaded and John's heart rate rocketed along with his blood pressure.

"Dean, you need to tell me where you are, son." John said, trying to remain calm for his son's sake. For both his sons. The calm façade was quickly wavering, though, when all he heard from the other side of the line were struggling breaths. "Dean? You hear me?" John pressed.

"Dad?" there was almost a sobbing quality to Dean's voice. And Dean never sobs. Ever.

"I'm right here, son, but I need to know what's wrong, I need to know where you are." John said, feeling his hands shaking. He didn't dare imagine what could be wrong with Dean. He didn't dare let himself go there. There was a long, painful pause before Dean's shaky voice was heard again;

"I… don't know." He wheezed. John's frown deepened. _He doesn't know? What's that supposed to mean? How could he not know?_ Sam's eyes were wide with fear and uncertainty. He was hovering over John, trying to hear his brother, trying to get any piece of information at all. Something went wrong, that was painfully obvious from the way his father went from pissed to seriously worried in 0.2 seconds flat. John put a finger to his lips, gesturing for Sam to be quiet. It was difficult enough hearing Dean's weak voice without Sam babbling in his ear.

"Dean, look around you, where are you?" John said slowly, trying to control his voice. There was a long pause again, where all John could hear were Dean's pants.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here."

"Help." John nearly cried with frustration, running a hand through his thick hair.

"Dean, listen to me, I need you to take a look around. What do you see?" he pushed.

"Sa-Sammy… You need… you need to… protect…" and then he was panting again, and there was this strange sound, a familiar sound. Too familiar. John's heard it before. And John froze, his heart stopping and dropping to his feet as his stomach lurched. The realization of what he was listening to was like being sucker punched, and then having an Acme piano fall on you. He was listening to his son dying.

"Dean! DEAN!" John cried. Screw calm, screw pretending. Sam didn't even register at the moment. He was screaming at John to tell him what was wrong, but John ignored him.

"Dad?" Dean breathed, barely audible.

"Dean, tell me what's wrong, where are you?" John demanded quickly. Dean was gasping for air now, and _oh, God, he was listening to his son dying!_

"Dad?" John waited a few seconds more, but Dean didn't say anything else, and John realized he was probably going into shock, if he wasn't already. And then there was a clanking sound as Dean dropped the phone, and a chill went down John's spine. He cried out for Dean, asking him again to tell him where he was, asking him to hold on, telling him everything will be alright, and _where are you, Dean?_ But all John could hear were ragged pants. And then there was more clanking, and John heard three dialing tones.

"Dean!"

"Dad?" This time there was bewilderment in the voice, like Dean wasn't expecting him, and John's knees nearly gave way. Sam started panicking, looking up at his father with wide, terrified eyes. "Dad, help…"

"Dean, I'm right here. I'm right here, son. But I need to know where you are so I can help you. Can you tell me where you are?" John asked, begged, tears clouding his vision.

"Dad…" and this time there was _fear_ in his son's voice, and all John could think was _I'm listening to my son dying and I can't do a damn thing about it! _And he heard the three dialing tones again. And suddenly, John understood. Dean was trying to dial 911.

"Dean? Son, you have to hang up and dial 911 again, do you understand me?" John asked, nearly screaming with frustration when there was no answer. Not even the dialing tone.

"Dad, help…" Dean gasps eventually, and John palms his face with his shaky hand.

"Yes, Dean, you need to get help." He said in the calmest voice he could muster. "You need to hang up the phone now, and dial 911 again." He said, "Can you do that?"

"Dad…" this time Dean choked on the word, and John knew this is It. The clanking sound sounded again as the phone slipped from Dean's hands once more, and John couldn't hear him anymore, just the background noises of some town that could be anywhere. John screamed for Dean to talk to him, to say something, anything, but Dean didn't answer, and he _knew_ he needed to hang up the phone and dial 911 himself, but he was listening to the sounds of his son dying on the other side of the phone, and there was no way he was hanging up. There was no way in hell he was leaving Dean alone.

John could hear a dog barking, and a car passing by, and then the sound of people talking grew near, and hope flickered. Someone was there. Someone could tell him where _there_ was! John started screaming into the phone, begging for someone, anyone to answer him. He could hear a woman telling someone to look at something, and then a gasp, and the woman asking if _he's dead_, and John could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat. He couldn't stand it anymore, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, with Sammy by his side.

John was still yelling for someone to freakin' pick up the damn phone, and a lifetime later, someone finally did, and John could finally ask him what the hell was going on.

"There's a kid…" the man told him. He sounded shocked and confused, and completely not what Dean needed right now. "Oh, God, I think he's dead…" the man breathed, and he might as well have shot John in the heart with consecrated iron.

"Where?" John managed just barely.

"O-on the corner of Eely and Lincoln." The man said in a shaking voice, and it was probably a good thing he wasn't within John's reach at the moment, because John was pretty certain he was going to kill him.

"I meant which state? Which city?" John barked.

"Bowie. In Maryland." The man answered, and John closed his eyes, biting his lip. _Thank God, at least he was in the same state_…

"Listen to me," John said, as calmly as he could manage with his own shaky voice, "This is my boy. That's my son, do you understand?" John demanded, and forced himself to take a deep breath. Scaring this man away wasn't going to help anyone. "You have to get him to a hospital, now!" John ordered in his best Marine voice, the one that still worked on Sam.

"I-I… I don't have a car…" the idiot stuttered.

"You hang up and call an ambulance, you call 911, get it?" John gritted through his teeth.

"Yes." The man answered.

"Well, do it already!" John yelled, and then there was a click and the connection was cut off, and _oh my God, Dean could already be dead_…

TBC

Well, originally, that was a oneshot, but I love this story, kind of waiting to see if my muse likes me. What's your verdict? Should I continue?


	2. Aftermath

A/N: First of all, let me say a big thank you to everyone who reviewed. I was completely blown away by the reaction to the first chapter, so thanks again, guys! Here's the next chapter, and I really hope you like it. Please read and review.

Chapter Two – Aftermath

_Oh my god, Dean could already be dead_.

The thought was playing and replaying itself in John's head. Dean could be dead. His son could be dead. John was vaguely aware of Sam's talking, and he _knew_ Sam was right there by his side, he could _feel_ his son there, touching his shoulder, but for some reason, he sounded like he was in another country. The sounds dimmed, and there were these black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He was sweating, his heart trying to pound a way out of his chest, and _Dean could already be dead_…

John scrambled to his feet just barely, with Sam helping to pull him up, but he pushed Sam away. He was not ready for him yet, not ready for the questions and the expression on his face, not ready to tell Sam that _Dean could already be dead_. John did his best to make it to the bathroom before he started throwing up.

"Dad, please…" Sam tried, panicking at the way his usually stoic and composed father was acting, but the words only made it worse, and John couldn't stop heaving. He never wanted to hear those words, this tone again, from either of his sons. "Dad, you're scaring me…" Sam wouldn't even go in the bathroom with John, he had stayed on the floor near the phone, watching his old man losing it.

John forced himself to calm down, to stop acting like a scared little boy and start acting like the hunter he is. He had to find answers. He had to find Dean. Bowie. What the hell would Dean be doing in Bowie? John pushed himself to his feet, swaying a little, and rinsed his mouth in the sink.

"Dad?"

"Your brother's hurt." John said once he had control over his voice again. He could see from Sam's expression that he was expecting more. Sam was right there by his side when Dean made the call, he could tell Dean was hurt by himself. Sam gave a slight nod.

"How bad?" he asked in a tiny voice, tears pooling in his eyes. There was no use pretending.

"We have to go. Now." John said, already grabbing the keys to his truck. For once, Sam didn't argue. Praise the Lord for small favors.

John had to stop a couple of minutes later, rushing out of the car to throw up again, because, Christ, _he just listened to his son dying over the phone_ – away and alone and scared, and that thought brought about another bout of dry heaves. Sam got out of the car, leaning against it, his face ashen.

"It's that bad?" he asked, and all John could manage was nodding. "Is he going to die?" Sam's voice cracked and hitched, and he bit his lip to stop from crying when John nodded again. "Then would you stop puking and get in the freaking car?" Sam snapped, getting in the car himself, and for once, John wasn't seeing red at the disrespect Sam's just shown him.

John drove to Bowie as fast as possible, speed limit be damned. He set his jaw, his eyes never leaving the tarmac, heeding Sam's occasional directions. It still took a couple of hours for them to get to the hospital, and John just kept praying he'd get the chance to properly part with his son, praying that Dean wouldn't be alone in his last moments, because his son didn't deserve to be alone.

John didn't even bother looking for a parking space. He parked the truck in the ambulance bay. Both John and Sam leaped out of the car almost before it even stopped, and rushed to the emergency room. John needed to find someone to tell him what was going on, he needed to find someone who'd take him to his son and tell him what was going on, tell him that Dean wasn't dead yet, but he never got the chance. Sam was making such a riot they actually called security on him.

John apologized for his son. He didn't have time for more than that. He needed answers. And he needed to get control of Sam before they got kicked out of this place. He rushed after his teenage son, pushing past the double doors with the words 'Authorized Personnel Only', and farther down, glancing into the examining rooms in search for Dean. John caught hold of Sam three rooms down the hall, stopping him and forcing his youngest to look at him. Sam's face mirrored his own, but he couldn't cave, and John knew it. He still had a son to protect.

"I want you to wait outside." He said sternly.

"No." Sam said defiantly and tried to pull away, but John held him by the shoulders, refusing to let go.

"I don't want you to see this." John said, his voice cracking just a little, and he cursed himself for that.

"He's my brother!" Sam demanded. "Dad…" he looked up at John with those brown, puppy eyes, and John knew, he just _knew_ he was going to say that word, and he couldn't stand it. He wouldn't listen. Sam wasn't allowed to say it.

"Sam!"

"Please!" and there it was. And John couldn't handle it anymore. His fingers digging into Sam's shoulders, he pulled him into a crushing hug. "Dad…" Sam gasped, and John let him go, giving a slight nod, and then Sam was off again, searching desperately for his brother. John followed Sam more slowly, afraid of what he was going to see, afraid of what he was going to hear once Sam found his brother. He wasn't disappointed, and quickened his pace to the room his youngest son's shrieks were coming from.

Sam was fighting with one of the nurses, trying to get to Dean as the nurse tried to push him out of the room, saying he had no business being there. At fifteen, Sam was already 5'10, and not a lightweight. Pushing him out of the room wasn't an easy task, and Sam fought her, at least until he felt strong hands wrapping around him, pulling him away. Sam fought the new threat until he realized who it was, and then stopped fighting.

Both father and son stood, watching in horror as the doctors and nurses worked around Dean. John didn't let go of Sam. If anything, he tightened his hold on his youngest, not ready to let go.

Dean seemed far too pale. They ripped his shirt and jeans off, took his boots and socks off, leaving him with nothing but his boxers and the blood that caked his chest, still pouring out of him and onto the table, onto the floor. Numerous blood infusions hung on the IV stand, the IVs stuck in Dean's arm. A nurse was working to put another IV line in.

Another nurse came over, blocking the view from father and brother.

"You really shouldn't be here," she said, trying to sound firm, yet compassionate, "You need to wait in the waiting room. Someone will find you when we have him stabilized. Until then, there's nothing we can tell you, and having you here isn't helping." She said, and though she said it to the both of them, it was clear she meant for John to get Sam out of there.

"He's my son," was all John could say. _Please, don't let him die alone. Let us be here._

"It really would be best…" the nurse tried, walking towards them slowly, unthreateningly, and by doing that, she gently forced them back.

"I'm not leaving him!" Sam yelled, fighting to break free of John's hold.

"I'll keep him away." John promised. He wasn't going anywhere. The nurse was about to speak again when one of the machines Dean was hooked up on started beeping wildly and she was forced to return her attention to her patient.

Sam and John watched in horror as the doctor said Dean'd stopped breathing, as they inserted a tube in his mouth and hooked him up to a ventilator to breathe for him. After a moment, the alarm stopped and the buzzing around Dean slowed down a little, and John could get a glimpse of his boy – but then another machine started beeping, and another. Alarms were going off, and the doctors were talking too fast, and nurses were rushing this way and that. John had to hold Sam for dear life, because _Dean's heart just stopped_, and this time the nurse refused to let them stay.

They didn't leave for the waiting room, though, just stayed outside the swinging door, watching the flurry of people around Dean through the small window. After what felt like ages later, the swinging door was pushed open as Dean was wheeled out of the room and into an elevator, still hooked up to countless machines. Sam tried to follow, but John wouldn't, _couldn't_, let go. And he couldn't follow.

"What's going on?" John demanded as the nurse that talked to him sooner came out the door.

"You're going to have to wait outside. A doctor will come to see you soon." She said, "It would help if you started on the paperwork." She added.

"Screw the paperwork." John snapped, "What's going on with my son?" he demanded. The nurse hesitated.

"We're not sure." She said, "He's lost a lot of blood, and he has some serious internal bleeding, but other than that, I really can't say. You'll have to speak to a doctor."

"Is he going to make it?" Sam asked in a small, scared voice that tried so hard to sound brave but just ended up reminding John of a five year old Sammy.

"You're really going to have to talk to the doctor." The nurse said, and then left them.

* * *

Sam stopped pacing an hour ago. John couldn't help but wonder if he had and any fingernails left, the way he was biting on them. Mary used to do that, too. He could understand his son, though, and shared his angst. They had been to the waiting room for four hours now, and still no one has come to talk to them. 

John finally broke a couple of hours ago and filled the insurance papers. Now there was nothing more to do but sit and think. And he hated that. He tried dragging Sam with him to the cafeteria, but neither really had an appetite. John couldn't let go of the thought that _this was taking too long_ and that _he didn't make it_. He sent Sam to get more information from the nurses. It amazed John how tenacious Sam could be, how downright scary he could be as he demanded information about his brother's condition. It would have been amusing any other time. He would have loved throwing it in his youngest's face – showing him he could be a fearsome hunter had he put his mind to it – but now was not the time.

Now he waited for word on his eldest. Now he had time to think. Now he had time to overthink. Now he had time to panic. _Dean could already be dead…_

Another twenty minutes or so later, someone finally came looking for them. John hesitated; the need to protect Sammy from the bad news conflicting with the need to have his son by his side, never to let him out of his sight again. Sam made his choice for him.

"How is he? How's my brother?" he demanded.

"We should sit down." The doctor said, and John felt his chest constrict as the doctor took his scrub hat off, showing them back to the chairs.

"Is he…?" John let the words hang. He couldn't say it, not out loud. Not yet.

"Your son is in the recovery room. You should be able to see him in about half an hour or so." The doctor said with a small smile. John closed his eyes as the room started spinning. He let out a breath of relief, hearing Sam whimper by his side. He pulled his youngest to him, offering whatever comfort he could.

"So, he's okay?" Sam asked once he'd found his voice again. The doctor somber face was all the answer the Winchesters needed.

"He hasn't regained consciousness." The doctor said, "And there were several complications during his surgery." He added.

"Complications?" John's voice with thick and raspy. The doctor looked from father to son and back again.

"Maybe we should…" he started.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Sam was quick to interject. John gave a slight nod. The doctor licked his lips, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on the end of his shirt, before putting them back on.

"Alright." He said, looking at John. "Your son arrived here with sever internal bleeding. He was already in shock, suffering from internal damage to several of his organs." He said in a clinical, businesslike tone of voice. "It took us a long time to stabilize him enough to allow surgery." The doctor continued. "Your son has lost a lot of blood. At one point, he stopped breathing on his own, and his heart stopped." The doctor hesitated, glancing at Sam, but John nodded for him to continue. "We put a tube down his throat to help him breathe, and resuscitated him, but I'm afraid his heart gave way during surgery. We got him back, your son is one hell of a fighter, sir, I'll give him that." The doctor went on. John frowned.

"But?" he asked. The doctor took a deep breath.

"But we won't be able to assess the exact extant of his injuries until he wakes up. If he wakes up." He said carefully.

"What do you mean, if?" Sam snapped, and John squeezed his shoulder, but didn't reprimand him. The doctor sighed.

"Sir, you need to understand – the shape your son was in when he got here, the fact that it took so long to get him here and stabilize him… the length of time his heart had stopped…" the doctor trailed off. "We've notified the police, of course." He added a moment later. John raised a brow, frowning.

"The police?" the doctor's face traveled from father to son and back again.

"They didn't tell you?" he asked, and John's frown deepened.

"Tell us what?" Sam chimed in quickly. The doctor exhaled loudly.

"Sir, your son's injuries… The multiple bruising, the internal damage, the chest wound, the head injury…" his look alternated between the two of them again, "Someone did this to him. Someone did this to him with the intent to cause as much pain as possible, and it looks like they enjoyed doing it." The doctor said slowly. "I'm sorry." He added.

"But he'll be okay, won't he?" Sam asked in a small voice. The doctor offered him another small smile, but no words of reassurance, before he left. "Dad?"

John swallowed hard, his heart pounding so painfully in his chest he thought it was a good thing they were at a hospital, because he might just be having a heart attack. He pulled Sam into his arms.

"He'll be alright, Sammy." he said. _And it's the last freakin' time Dean's ever hunting on his own. John didn't care how much he'd beg or say he was old enough, Dean was_ never _hunting alone again!_

TBC


	3. Damage Assessment and Control

A/N: I just wanted to say **thanks** to everyone who reviewed, I really appreciate it. Your reviews really keep me going! Also, I know this chapter is really short, but what can I say? I'm sick and my attention span is about 3 minutes, so... I apologize for any mistakes.

I hope you like it, and please keep reviewing.

Chapter Three – Damage Assessment and Control

Sam sat by Dean's side, holding his cast-encased hand in his and listening to the sound of the machines as they pumped life into his brother and monitored him. Dean hadn't regained consciousness yet. Sam was becoming frantic about that, but the doctors reassured John that the anesthesia was probably still working its way out of his system.

By early evening, as most of the adrenaline started to wear-off, John managed to drag Sam back to the cafeteria. Neither had an appetite, but John wouldn't take no for an answer. They ended up mostly forking their food around, until Sam conceded and asked for a sandwich he could just eat later. John agreed, getting them both sandwiches and coffee.

He was pretty sure he'd suffered a minor stroke when they got back to Dean's room only to find the bed empty. The look of complete terror in Sam's eyes was something John was sure he would never forget, and the relief when the nurse told him Dean was doing better and was moved to the ICU for the night was palpable in both father and son. It was even more reassuring to learn that Dean was only expected to stay in the ICU for the twenty four hours following his surgery.

The nurses kept telling them Dean was very lucky, that he was doing so much better than expected. Seeing him there, in that ICU bed, with a machine breathing for him, a cast on his hand, and bruises on almost every part of his body, John couldn't help but wonder how this could be considered as lucky. But then again, _Dean could have been dead by now_. Well, at least his doctor wasn't a complete jerk; that was an upside. The downside being the head nurse, who simply refused to allow them to stay a minute past visiting hours. Sam suggested they'd check and see if she was a banshee or something so they could deal with her.

They returned the next morning, before visiting hours, but the nurse refused to let them in before the doctors made their rounds. Sam was climbing walls by then. He wouldn't sit still for a minute, and even when he did, his leg kept bouncing up and down. John decided coffee will be off bounds for a while for his youngest. He got one for himself, though, and paced the waiting room.

Finally someone came to talk to them. A short, plump woman in scrubs. John frowned.

"Family of Dean Winchester?" she asked, and John gave a slight nod as Sam got to his feet, both of them making their way to the woman, who smiled at them. "Hi, my name is doctor Riley. I'm your son's physician." She introduced herself. John frowned.

"What about doctor Rhodes?" he asked.

"He was Dean's surgeon. I'm his physician now." Doctor Riley clarified.

"How is he?" Sam asked quickly. Doctor Riley glanced at him, and then at John, as if asking for permission to speak in front of Sam. John gave a slight nod.

"Well, he's lucky. Doctor Rhodes knows what he's doing. He's the best. Even managed to save your son's spleen. That man can work miracles." She said, glimpsing at Dean's chart in her hands.

"Is my son awake? Can we see him now? When are you moving him out of the ICU?" John asked. Riley hesitated.

"We're not moving him out of the ICU for the moment." She said at last, and John's frowned deepened.

"Why not?" Sam deadpanned.

"Your son hasn't regained consciousness." Riley addressed John. "We were hoping for him to wake up once the sedatives wore off, but…" her eyes shifted from John to Sam and back to John. "He's in a coma."

"What?"

"What do you mean, he's in a coma?" Sam demanded.

"The coma was medically induced." Riley said, holding her hand up to stop them. "Mr. Winchester, your son has suffered sever internal trauma. He's had major blood loss. His vitals were stable for a while, but the stress of the injury was taking a toll on his body. He needs time to recuperate." She said patiently, "We'll wait another twenty four hours, and then see if we can start waking him up."

Sam just stared at her, looking lost and frightened. John pulled him closer.

"And other than that?" he asked in a raspy voice. Riley sighed.

"Your son had suffered damage to his kidneys, liver and spleen. We're currently monitoring his kidneys, and should things not get better, I'm afraid your son will require dialysis, but there's still time for that. One of his lungs collapsed in the ER when he was first brought in here, but it was re-inflated, and we don't anticipate any farther complications on that end." She took a deep breath and continued. "He fractured his wrist, we had a cast put on, but we could probably take it off in about three weeks." She said, and John saw the slight movement of her eyes. He nodded.

"Can we see him now?" he asked. Riley nodded. John turned to his youngest. "Why won't you go ahead, Sammy? I'll be right there." He suggested, and it was all Sam needed before he rushed to sit by his brother's side. John watched him leave, and then turned back to the doctor. "And the bad news?" he asked. The doctor took a deep breath before she spoke again.

"Maybe we should sit down?" she suggested, but John shook his head. He needed to know, no sugar coating, he had to know how Dean was doing. "Mr. Winchester, the damage to Dean's kidneys is worrying." She said slowly, nodding slightly, "But you're right. It's not the worst of it." John swallowed hard. "It seemed your son had suffered blunt trauma to his head. Now, we don't know the extant of the injury yet. His initial CAT scan and the MRI showed no sign of bleeding, which is good news, but the fact he hasn't regained consciousness yet is reason to be alarmed." She said. John nodded again, this time sitting down. He needed time to digest it all.

"Anything else?" he asked hoarsely, wishing for the doctor to deny him. He wasn't so lucky.

"Actually…" Riley sat down next to him, and John buried his face in his hands. "Mr. Winchester, we have reason to believe your son has been a victim of some ritual or… something to that affect." She said hesitantly, and John's head snapped up. "The police have already taken pictures, but…" she shook her head. "He'd suffered some beating, that's for sure, but there is something else."

"Something else?" John's voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. It was supposed to be a poltergeist. A spirit. _One_ spirit. Not even a really mean one, from what he could gather, or he never would have let Dean go on his own. But a ritual? His mind was already racing, listing the rituals he knew of, the rituals he's heard of, already preparing for the hunt he didn't even know if he would go on. Doctor Riley hesitated.

"I… I've never seen anything like it before." She said. "It's like he's been… branded. But it looks more like a tattoo." She said, her brow creasing. "The lab results were conclusive, it's not a tattoo, but… I can't really explain it." She scratched her cheek. "Whatever it is, it was still bleeding when he got here. It took a long time for the bleeding to stop." She said. John said nothing for a long time. His mind was already made up. Someone did this to his boy. Someone hurt his son. And that someone – supernatural or otherwise – is going to pay. He got up and entered Dean's room without another word to the doctor.

* * *

"Ah, the young Mr. Winchester." John startled awake, blinking the sleep away. His muscles were cramped from the uncomfortable sleep in the small hospital chair. A nurse smiled apologetically at him as she came to check on Dean's vitals. John scrubbed at his face, getting to his feet. 

"How is he?" John asked.

"He seems stable." The nurse said, trying to sound encouraging. No news was good news. "Doctor Riley should be here any moment." The nurse said, scribbling something in Dean's chart before she left. John followed her with his eyes as she left, grimacing at the sight of two policemen standing outside Dean's room.

"Sam?" John asked in a low tone. Sam looked questioningly at him, and John jutted his jaw to the law officers.

"Oh." Sam said casually. "They've been here a couple of hours. They want to be here when Dean wakes up, get his statement or something. He's not in trouble, I asked." Sam told his father. John nodded lightly, letting his tension ease, until his son's last sentence sunk in.

"Wait, you did what?" he snapped. "Sam, you do not talk to police without me or Dean there, do you understand?" Sam just shrugged.

"You're both here." He said nonchalantly. John narrowed his eyes.

"You know what I meant." He said. Sam shrugged again. John rubbed his face again. He neared his eldest son's bed, caressing a bruised cheek, brushing his short hair with his fingers. Dean still looked paler than the sheets he was lying on. He still looked like he had gone seven rounds with the Devil itself. "He looks better." John commented. Sam nodded lightly.

"Yeah, heart rate's stronger, the nurse said his blood pressure is up a little, too." He said. John nodded. Sam looked at him. "Dad… what did this, it wasn't a poltergeist, was it?" he asked. John scratched his bearded cheek.

"Doesn't look like it, Sammy." he said seriously.

"But, he's gonna be okay, right?" Sam asked carefully, his eyes intent on his father.

"He's going to be just fine." John said, hoped, prayed. "You should get some rest too, kiddo. You look like crap." John noted.

"I want to wait for the doctor." Sam said, taking his big brother's hand in his, careful not to pull the IV out.

"All right, but after that, I want you to get some shut eye. That's an order." John said. He was about to tell Sam to get back to the motel so he could sleep better, but a sudden fear made the words freeze on his lips. He wasn't going to let his son out of his sight. Neither one of his sons. Not for quite a while.

"Good morning." Doctor Riley said cheerfully as she entered the room, Dean's chart at hand. John and Sam both got to their feet as she entered. "Oh, I see there hasn't been any changes in his condition during the night, that's good news." She noted.

"Why is that good news?" Sam asked, "He's not doing better, how is it good news?" he demanded. The doctor smiled at him.

"Well, he ain't doing any worse, either." She said, "Now, we're gonna have to run some tests, so I'm going to have to ask you two to leave us for a while. I hear the cafeteria has some stale bagels and something resembling coffee this morning." She said kindly. Sam was about to protest when John told him to go wait outside. Resentfully, Sam obeyed. John watched his son until he got out of the room before turning to the doctor.

"How is he really doing, doc?" John asked.

"Well, like I said, no news is good news." She said, but John just stared at her intently. She sighed. "Well, his blood pressure is up, that's a very good sign. It's almost up to normal. And his blood gas test during the night showed improvement. If the results repeat themselves we'll know he's ready to breathe on his own again." She said. "But other then that, there's nothing more I can say before we take some more tests."

"But if the blood work's okay, you'll take that tube out of his throat?" John asked, hopeful for some good news.

"No. We'd probably want to keep it in until he wakes up, just to be safe." Doctor Riley said, "Now Mr. Winchester, I really should start with your son's tests…"

"Oh, right. Of course." John stuttered, leaving the room to find Sam and get them both some breakfast.

* * *

"Mr. Winchester," 

"He's not waking up." John said, looking from his pale son to the doctor.

"Mr. Winchester,"

"You said once he was off those drugs, that he'd wake up." John snapped, "Well, he's been off the damn meds for three hours already, and he's not waking up!"

"Mr. Winchester, I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice, sir!" the doctors said firmly. "Your son's tests have shown improvement, but you need to understand that his injuries are very serious. We still don't know how serious his head injury is. You have to be patient, you have to wait until he wakes up."

"But he will, right?" Sam asked in a small voice, stopping the doctor's tirade. The doctor sighed.

"Give it time."

TBC


	4. Surviving

A/N: A little update for Thanksgiving. I thought it was nice to have Dean wake up now, it is the holidays and all... And that cliffie? Um... Kripke can do it, why can't I?

Chapter Four – Surviving

"Dad!" John started, turning to look at his youngest son. Sam jutted his jaw towards Dean, who's eyes were fluttering. He was waking up. His heart racing, John rushed to his eldest's side, holding his hand.

"That's right, kiddo. You fight it. Open your eyes. Come on, buddy, it's time to wake up." He said. Dean's eyes kept fluttering, and then slowly opened. He looked around him, a glazed look in his eyes, blinking slowly, his eyes opening only half way. "Sammy, go get someone in here." John rasped.

"Hold on, Dean. I'll be right back." Sam whispered to his brother, squeezing his hand, and quickly left to get help. The machines surrounding Dean started to beep faster, alarms going off from several of them.

"Dean, just hold on, son. It's okay, I'm here, just hold on." John said, and that was the last Dean heard before he slipped back to the warm, pain-free darkness.

* * *

Just getting his eyes to open seemed a formidable task. He could hear voices, distant voices, but they were too dimmed, too far away. The voices are clearer, though, not as dim as the last time he tried opening his eyes. 

There was someone there with him, he could sense it, but it didn't feel real. Nothing felt real. He tried to gasp and flinched, trying to turn his head when a painfully bright light was practically burning into his corneas. Blood was rushing in his ears, his heart pumping hard. He could hear strange beeping and sucking noises, and, not being able to identify them or even focus his eyes, Dean panicked.

He tried to go back, tried to find that darkness, that safe place where nothing hurt him, but someone, something was holding him back. He felt someone touching him, holding his hand. Someone was there, trying to calm him down, but it didn't work. Dean's heart was racing, there was something in his mouth; a tube, running down his throat. It was hurting him, choking him. He reached out blindly, trying to pull it out, but someone, something stopped him. And then the darkness returned, and he welcomed it.

* * *

Another couple of days passed, a couple of days in which Dean kept slipping in and out of consciousness, before he finally woke up long enough to have the tube extracted from his throat, long enough for the doctors to examine him. 

Dean lay in the hospital bed, trying to force himself to stay awake. He was beyond exhausted. There was a sense of urgency he couldn't get rid of, fear that threatened to control him, but he had no idea why or how to fight it. He let his eyes close, holding on to Sammy's hand. Sam was there, Dad was there, with him. They won't let anything happen to him. He knew they will protect him, but for some reason, the fear wouldn't go away.

A couple of cops came by to see him. He got nervous at that, cops weren't a good thing in the Winchester world, but his father didn't seem bothered by them. He sat with Dean, brushing his hair like he hadn't done since Mom had died, and whispered in Dean's ears. Dean wasn't so sure what his Dad had said, though. Coherent thought was there, just beyond his reach. It was too hard to try and grab it. For now, he concentrated on keeping his eyes open, on keeping hold of Sammy's hand. He concentrated on his family, on his father's voice and touch. But his fatigue won, and he soon drifted to sleep again.

* * *

"But it's been three days already." John said tiredly. "Shouldn't he be… better by now?" he asked. Doctor Riley smiled patiently. 

"Mr. Winchester, like I've explained, the latest MRI scan showed some intracranial bleeding,"

"But you said it was nothing to worry about," John interjected, "You said it will fix itself, that there won't be any lasting damage…"

"That's right." The doctor nodded.

"Then why isn't he getting better?" John demanded.

"He is getting better," the doctor insisted, "His tests show improvement. He's breathing on his own, he's more alert, this _is_ improvement. I understand that it can't be easy for you, seeing your son this way, but it will take time. His body has to heal, it takes time."

"He can barely talk." John noted.

"Once the swelling in his brain goes down, the pressure will ease and he'll be back to normal. For now, he needs rest, Mr. Winchester. I understand your frustration, but you shouldn't push him." Doctor Riley said. "Now, the Neuro consult should be here soon, but as far as I'm concerned, Dean is doing very well." She added patiently. John nodded lightly.

"I just want him to be okay." He said in a small voice.

"And he will be." The doctor promised, and left the Winchesters alone in the room. Sam was watching the little TV, talking to Dean, who had his eyes closed.

John took his seat next to Dean, taking up the paper again. Dean was still having trouble keeping his eyes open, but he was conscious longer now, though still not quite all there. John forced himself to concentrate on his paper. He needed to know what happened, the need burning in his bones, but Dean was in no condition to answer. The job was miles away from where Dean was found, his car was still missing – not that John had wasted much time looking for his son's beloved Impala. John had no idea what had happened, how Dean got to Bowie. This wasn't the work of a poltergeist, that much John knew for sure, so now he spent his time by his son's bed, researching the area, preparing for the inevitable hunt.

* * *

"Can you tell me your full name?" the neurologist asked, shining his penlight into Dean's eyes. Dean flinched away from the light. He cleared his sore throat. 

"Dean Mathew Winchester." He said in a hoarse voice. The doctor glanced at John, and nodded when John nodded to show Dean's answer was correct.

"Do you know what day it is?" the neurologist asked. Dean closed his eyes.

"No." he said in a small voice. Sam took his hand, putting a glass of cool water in his brother's hand. Dean opened his eyes, giving Sam a thankful smile and tried to get the glass to his mouth. It felt like it weighed a ton. His hand was shaking, and he nearly dropped the glass, before Sam took it back and helped him sip the cool liquid. Dean only managed to take a few sips before his head dropped back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes again, exhausted, and licked his chapped lips.

"Dean, I'm going to need you to remember three things for me, do you think you can do that?" the doctor asked a moment later. Dean nodded lightly, but didn't open his eyes. "A pen, a carrot and a clown. You think you can remember that?" the doctor asked. A small grin tugged at Dean's lips.

"Sammy's afraid of clowns." He said.

"Am not!" Sam interjected quickly, voice full of indignation.

"Are too."

"Nah uh."

"Yuh huh."

"Boys." John's voice put an end to the teasing. The doctor smiled.

"Dean, do you remember which state we're in?" he asked. Dean took a deep breath and grimaced in pain. He shook his head.

"Hurts." He said through gritted teeth.

"Your head?" the neurologists asked in a serious tone.

"Everything." Dean said, his uninjured hand wrapping around his midsection. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip. Pain washed over him in waves, he couldn't even determine where it was coming from; it seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't quite understand the words. He tried to take a deep breath, tried his hardest to clear his mind.

"…Me now? Is it better now?" someone asked.

"Dad?"

"I'm right here." John said, his voice filled with worry as he took Dean's hand in his. Dean was breathing hard, a sheen of sweat covering his body.

"Dean, can you hear me?" someone asked. Dean forced his eyes open. It was a doctor, he knew he should recognize him, but he didn't. Dean squeezed John's hand, trying to overcome the pain.

"Can you remember the three things I asked you?" the doctor asked, and this time, Dean swatted his hand as he tried to shine the penlight in his eyes.

"Pen, clown…" Dean breathed, "There was something else…"

"That's right, take your time…" the doctor said encouragingly.

"I wanna go home." Dean said weakly, "Dad, I wanna go home." John exchanged a worried look with the doctor, and then looked back at his eldest.

"Soon, kiddo. We need to fix you up first." He said in a soothing voice, brushing his fingers through Dean's hair.

"First aid's in the bathroom." Dean murmured.

"That's right, buddy." John said, "But you need a little more than that."

"Sammy's scared of clowns." John couldn't help the grin on his lips, which widened at Sam's protests. "Dad?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"I'm sorry." Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper. John's grin melted away.

"For what?" he asked, but Dean didn't answer. The painkillers were making him sleepy, knocking him out. John looked up at the neurologist. "How bad?" he asked. The doctor's eyes were intent on Dean's heart monitor.

"It's too early to tell." Was the doctor's evasive answer. "I'll come by again later." He added, and then left.

"Dad?" Sam said in a tiny voice. John let out a sigh.

"Come here, Sammy." he said, extending his hand to his youngest. Sam quickly moved his chair over to his father's side, resting his head against the older hunter's broad shoulder.

"What if he doesn't get better?" Sam asked fearfully.

"Of course he'll get better, Sammy." John said confidently, "He's a Winchester." He said, looking at the bruises covering the too pale skin of his oldest son. "Besides, he still has to tease you about the clown thing. He's a lot better at it than I am." John added with a slight smile, which grew a little at Sam's irritated huff of air.

* * *

The neurologist returned later that evening. Dean has been awake for nearly two hours now, the longest he's been awake in five days. He lay there, with his eyes closed, listening to the TV and to Sammy's chatter. 

"Hello, Dean. Remember me?" the neurologist asked. The voice was familiar. Dean opened his heavy lidded eyes and groaned.

"You're the guy with the light." He said, closing his eyes again. The doctor smiled.

"Yes, that's right. My name is Doctor Peterson." The doctor introduced himself again.

"Just keep that light away from me." Dean grunted. John found the remote control, turning the TV off. The doctor smiled again as he reached for Dean's chart, leafing through it.

"I asked you to remember three things," Doctor Peterson said, his eyes still on the chart, "can you remember what they were?" he glanced up at Dean, and then back to study the chart. Dean hesitated.

"Just two. A pen and a clown." He said. The doctor nodded lightly.

"Good. That's good. The third thing was a carrot. Can you remember that?" Dean sighed, shrugging.

"I don't really do vegetables." He said, making the other three men in the room smile.

"All right, how about a tree?" Peterson asked. Dean nodded lightly. Peterson took a seat next to Dean's bed. "Does your head hurt?" he asked. Dean opened his eyes for a moment.

"I never realized it weighs so much." Dean said, and Sam smiled. He was about to say some smartass remark but John cleared his throat, making sure Sam stayed quiet.

"But does it hurt?" the neurologist persisted.

"Don't know," Dean sighed, "everything hurts." He admitted wearily.

"Do you remember what happened to you? Why you're in the hospital?" the doctor pushed. Dean shook his head lightly. John's expression hardened.

"Why can't he remember?" he asked.

"Well, he's had a nasty concussion. His scan shows the swelling is starting to go down, he'll probably remember things in time. And I'm sure all the drugs he's on can't be helping. I'm not worried so far." The doctor said, then turned to Dean, "Dean, do you remember the three things I asked you to remember?"

"Tree, clown, pen." Dean said without hesitation. The doctor nodded. "My car." Dean said a moment later and the doctor raised a brow. "I don't remember what happened to my car." Dean explained.

"We'll take care of that later." Peterson said. Dean snorted.

"Easy for you to say, it's not your car."

* * *

John wasn't worried so much about Dean telling the doctors he didn't remember what had happened to him. It wasn't like he'd expected his boy to tell them the truth, after all. Neither one of the Winchester men liked hospitals all that much. Being committed to one certainly wasn't their kind of fun. But when two more days have passed, and Dean still had no memory of his attack, he started to grow worried. He asked Dean, in private, to tell him about the hunt. All Dean could say was that the last thing he remembered was getting to the house. He had no memory of ever going in, of ever coming out, or getting to Bowie. 

Dean's tests have shown improvement, though, and the swelling to his brain had nearly disappeared. The doctors explained that short time memory loss wasn't uncommon in such cases, but John didn't like it all the same. He needed to know what he was hunting.

It took another day. He was finally getting some sleep when his son's voice woke him up. John grunted, his aching joints and cramped muscles protesting.

"What is it, son?" John asked, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, keeping his voice low as not to wake Sammy.

"I think something's wrong with me." Dean admitted in a tiny voice. John frowned.

"Nothing's wrong with you, kiddo. You just took one hell of a beating. You'll be okay." He said, but Dean didn't look convinced. He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Go to sleep, son. You need the rest." John said, stroking his son's bruised cheek.

"I think… I think I remember now." Dean said slowly, licking his dry lips, "Not everything, but…" he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, wincing as he did. John leaned forward.

"What?" he asked, Dean shook his head.

"Not much. It's just… the poltergeist…" he said in a small voice.

"What about it, son?" John asked. Dean closed his eyes, taking a long time to answer.

"It wasn't there." He said eventually. "The house was empty. I didn't find anything inside." Dean said. John's frown deepened.

"What do you mean, you didn't find anything? There was a…"

"No." Dean stopped him. "Not a poltergeist." He added.

"Then what?" John demanded.

"Trap."

TBC

A/A/N: Well, the alerts aren't working, again, and I figured - it is the holiday season and most of you probably won't have the time for this, so I'm probably going to update slower for a while. Unless you convince me otherwise. Happy holidays, and please review!


	5. Starting to Heal

A/N: I wanted to say thank you to everyone who read and reviewed so far. You guys rock! I tried to reply to all of you, and I really hope I didn't miss anyone. My muse read those nice reviews and was so happy she even told me where this story was going. At least someone knows the ending now... ;)

I originally planned on posting this on Thursday, but your lovely reviews changed my mind. See, reviews make for quicker updates... hint hint...

Enjoy!

Chapter Five – Starting to Heal

"Dad, c'mon…"

"Dean, you're staying at the hospital, and that's final." John said sternly.

"But Dad…"

"You do realize you sound like a five year old, right?" Dean narrowed his eyes, crossing his hands over his chest.

Almost two weeks have passed since he arrived at the hospital, and Dean couldn't wait to get home. John, on the other hand, was less than thrilled to let him out without a clean bill of health. Dean's memory about what had happened had more holes in it than Swiss cheese. He remembered three guys, and some chanting, he remembered a woman, and where he'd parked his car, but mostly, he remembered the pain and the terror he'd felt. He still felt that fear, not that he was willing to admit it to anyone, himself included. But as long as his father was around, he felt safe.

Most of his IVs had been taken out, but there were two tubes still invading his body; one of which he welcomed – the one still pumping painkillers into his system. The other one, he couldn't wait to get rid of. He never imagined how great it is to just get up and walk to the bathroom to answer nature's call. _That_ tube he couldn't wait to get out of him. Unfortunately for him, Doctor Riley kept very close tabs on his kidneys, and wouldn't take the catheter out. Dean was really starting to hate that woman.

"I just want to go home!" Dean protested. John rolled his eyes. They've been having this argument for the past fifteen minutes, and not for the first time, either.

"I tell you what, you walk across this room, and I'll sign the papers, okay?" John asked, raising his brow. Dean narrowed his eyes, glaring at his father. He still hasn't gotten out of bed. The bruises on his face and body have started to fade, but the internal contusions were a different story. Dean hurt in places he didn't even know he had. In fact, he could barely sit up straight for longer than five minutes without crying out in pain. That was what his father had asked him to do the last time he'd asked to go home.

"You're just mean, you know that?" Dean snapped, pouting. John smirked.

"Yeah, well think about it like that, if we went home, I'd be in your face twenty four-seven. At least here, they kick me out of the room when they're giving you those tests." He said, and Dean snorted.

"When's Sammy coming back?" Dean asked.

"Any minute now." John answered. "You want me to turn the TV on?"

"Why won't you just kill me? It'll hurt less." Dean said, sighing dramatically, still pouting, and John smirked again. He turned the TV on. Dean groaned.

"You should get some rest, kiddo." John noted, changing the channels. Oprah was on. He never realized the show could actually be interesting. He'd kill anyone who dared calling him on it, though.

"I _should_ get a double cheeseburger with chilly fries and extra onions, that's what I should get." Dean grunted. "When's Sammy getting here? It's only three blocks away…"

"He'll be here any minute, Dean." John said, a little annoyed, "Stop whining. And he's not getting you any cheeseburgers. You heard what the doctor said, you're on a strict diet until your electrolyte thingies get better and your kidneys start working like they should." Dean shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"Just kill me now." He muttered.

"Keep bugging me, and I might." John added. Dean glared at him.

"Fine," he said petulantly, "last time I'm calling _you_ when I need help." He muttered, and John cringed, swallowing hard, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. He will never, ever, for the rest of his life, forget that phone call Dean made. He sighed, turning to his eldest and patting his leg.

"Dean," he sighed, "just a few more days, okay? Just wait till you can actually stand on your feet or sit up for more than ten minutes, or hell, just stay awake for longer then a couple hours…"

"I can stay awake." Dean protested.

"Dean…" he was testing John's patience, and John was not a man with much patience to begin with.

"I can!" Dean insisted.

"You're staying in the hospital!" John barked. "Now shut up and rest!"

"Yes, _sir_." Dean said resentfully. "Wouldn't want you to miss your soaps…" he muttered under his breath, looking innocently at his father as the older hunter turned a murderous glare at him.

Dean was asleep again before Sam made it back in the room, which was a good thing, because John was pretty sure he was so going to rub his cheeseburger in his son's face. He still made yummy noises, though. John Winchester was definitely no saint.

* * *

"That's it, nice and slow." Said Derek, the physical therapist. Dean's persistence to go home hasn't lessened over the next couple of days, and finally, someone was listening. Maybe not his father, but _someone_ was listening. Today, finally, he was getting out of bed for the first time. Dean wanted to get out of the building, get some fresh air. Derek said they'll start with going to the bathroom and back first. Dean laughed at him. He was a Winchester after all, and the bathroom was only fifteen feet away. He'd stopped laughing, though, once he tried sitting up. 

Just getting off the damn bed was exhausting, not to mention painful as hell, but the thought of going to the bathroom on his own made him grit his teeth and push on. He blinked, trying to get the world to stop spinning.

"Here, drink this." A Styrofoam cup was brought to his lips. He glared at Derek. He certainly did _not_ need help drinking. With a shaky hand, Dean reached for the cup. "Whoa, easy." Derek was quick to catch him as Dean swayed on his feat. He leaned heavily against the bed, drenched in sweat, choking on the cold water. Sam took the cup away, looking worriedly at him. Dean smiled at the younger Winchester, trying to appear like his old, cocky, self-assured self. Apparently, he wasn't doing so well. "You want to stop?" Derek asked, but Dean shook his head, wincing and closing his eyes.

"Just need a minute." He breathed, realizing Derek was still holding on to his shoulder. He was about to shrug him off, but realized Derek was probably the only thing keeping him on his feet. Dean cursed.

"It's okay, it's been a long time since you've been on your feet, it's natural that you'll feel dizzy." Derek said softly. Dean nodded lightly. "Just tell me when you're ready." Derek added. Dean nodded again, eyes still closed. He was really glad his father wasn't there. Sam seeing him like this was bad enough.

"Okay, I'm ready." Dean said. Derek smiled at him.

"You sure you want to do this on your own?" he asked, and Dean nodded again, gripping the IV stand and trying not to appear like he was leaning on it as heavily as he was.

Dean gritted his teeth against the pain and the nausea, trying to ignore the world spinning around him and the fact that darkness was consuming more and more of his peripheral vision, and made it all the way to the bathroom. Drenched in sweat and breathing hard, he collapsed against the closed toilet and tried to catch his breath.

"That was good. It was very good," Derek said, and Dean glared at him, though he seemed far hazier than Dean remembered him. Dean was pretty sure there was supposed to be only one of him, and that he used to have a head and feet instead of weird smudges. "You want to try and drink some more?" Derek suggested. _What the hell, he was already in the bathroom_. Dean nodded, and Sam brought the cup of water over. Dean tried reaching for it, but couldn't quite focus on it. He blinked, shaking his head trying to get the dancing dark spots to go away. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear the blood rushing. He dropped his hand, groaning.

"You okay?" Sam asked worriedly, "Here, drink." And suddenly, the cup was pressing against his lips. Dean took a sip, but he couldn't swallow. He tried, but ended up choking and spitting the water on the floor, gasping for breath.

Derek quickly brought the wheelchair over and wheeled Dean back to the bed. He was saying things, Sam was saying things, but all Dean could hear was the rushing of his blood and the thrumming of his heart. He held on to consciousness as hard as he could. Something was placed over his mouth and nose, helping him to breathe. He felt someone ruffling his hair, and finally succumbed to his fatigue.

* * *

"But I made it all across the room!" Dean didn't even hide the irritation in his voice. 

"Yeah. And then you passed out." John pointed out flatly.

"You said if I could sit up, if I could walk across the room on my own…"

"Dean," John was tired of having this argument. It was a stupid argument, he had no idea why Dean was fighting him so hard. His son was not well, and as far as hospitals go, this wasn't such a bad one. He couldn't understand why Dean was being so difficult, so stubborn.

"I want to go home, Dad." John sighed, patting his son's leg.

"I know you do, kiddo." He said softly, and then sighed. Sam was off getting some sleep at the motel, and John was about to join him for the night. He got up and walked over to the door, closing it before returning to sit by his son's side. He hesitated for a moment, and Dean looked at him questioningly. John let out a deep breath. "Just you and me here, buddy." He said. Dean frowned, wrinkling his brow.

"Yeah?"

"No one's judging you, Dean. No one's gonna think any less of you." John started, and Dean grew restless, fear creeping over him.

"Dad?"

"I need to know what happened, Dean. There's no one else here, just you and me. I need to know what happened, what did this to you." John pressed. Dean stared at him for a moment longer, as if waiting for something else, but his father just stared back. Dean gave a slight shake of his head.

"I already told you." he said.

"You said you don't remember." John noted.

"I don't." Dean said quickly, defensively.

"Dean, it's okay…"

"I don't remember, Dad." Dean said pointedly, "I remember… I was talking to you before I headed for the house, and I… I think I was sweeping it for EMF, but I got nothing, and then…" Dean scratched his head, shaking it and shrugging. "I don't know. It gets… fuzzy. I remember their eyes; black eyes. Like, all black, no pupils or anything, just black."

"Like a possession?" John asked. Dean nodded slightly.

"I think so. There was this woman… and…" he shook his head, trying his best to remember, "We were talking, I think. And, I don't know. I think… I think I wasn't supposed to be there, or I wasn't supposed to be alone or something. It was a trap. And then they did something…" he shuddered, swallowing hard, not looking at his father.

"Did what?" John asked. "Did what, Dean?" he pressed.

"I'm tired." Dean said in a small voice. "And my head hurts. I think I'll go to sleep now."

"Dean, what did they do?" John pushed. Dean bit his lip, swallowing hard.

"I don't remember." He said, trying his best to remain in control of his emotions, "I don't remember, but…"

"But what?" Dean looked up at John, his eyes watering.

"But I don't think they were done with me. I think… they'll come back for me." He said, admitting it for the first time. John stared at him quietly for a long moment.

"Not if I have anything to say about it." He said a moment later.

"You can't protect me here." Dean said in a voice so weak John had barely heard him. He squeezed his son's hand, finally understanding the urging need to come home.

"Watch me."

* * *

John spent the night watching his oldest sleep. He could still remember the last time he'd spent an entire night watching Dean sleep; it had happened a few years ago after a hunt that just went from bad to horrifyingly bad when, for no apparent reason, Dean had collapsed. No apparent reason happened to be his son hiding a high fever and stomach pains which later turned out to be acute food poisoning. John pushed the thought out of his mind, thinking instead of ways to protect his son. 

Unfortunately, other then salting the room, he had no idea what else to do. Dean was right, there were too many people coming and going, the cleaning staff kept cleaning the salt away, and he had no idea what kind of spirit or demon he was dealing with. The house, or even a motel room, would be a better place to protect his boys. There he could use charms and draw protection symbols all around, plus he could control all the comings and goings - it would be safer.

The problem was, Dean still didn't seem all right, he didn't seem well enough to leave the hospital. He was still weak, still having trouble staying awake for long, and still hooked up to painkillers. And from the looks of him, he definitely still needed those. Dean's kidneys were getting better, but he was still getting some of his nourishment intravenously. Painkillers John could get, but healthy cooking? Monitoring Dean's blood work? It was a risk.

But Dean seemed determined, even insisting on trying to walk across the room again. It was a difficult choice to make. Either way could end up with Dean being hurt worse than he already was.

"Dad?" John snapped out of his musing at the sound of his son's voice.

"Hey, buddy. How're you feeling?" he asked with a slight smile. Dean blinked owlishly.

"What time is it?" Dean asked. John checked his wristwatch.

"Almost five." He said.

"In the afternoon?" Dean frowned, scratching at his cast-encrusted hand. John sighed. Dean was still out of it.

"In the morning." He said. "You should go back to sleep."

"Weren't you supposed to go back to the motel with Sammy tonight?" Dean asked.

"Sammy will be fine." John said.

"I don't like him being alone in a motel. I mean, if he was going to bring chicks, then fine. But he's Sammy. He usually brings trouble if he bothers bringing anything at all." Dean said, closing his eyes again. John smiled.

"You bring more trouble than he does." He noted.

"Not more than I can handle." Dean said. At that John grinned.

"Well, your brother's tucked away in a motel room, sleeping peacefully right now. Remind me where you are?" Dean groaned.

"My stomach hurts." He said a moment later. John frowned.

"You want me to get a doctor?" he asked.

"Nah, probably all that hospital food. Guaranteed to make you sick." Dean said, shifting a little in bed. "Wouldn't have that problem at home." He noted.

"Stop it." John snapped. Dean hissed when he tried shifting to his side.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, for staying." Dean said in a small voice. John ran his hand through Dean's hair, ruffling it a little.

"Go back to sleep." He said, "The sooner you get better, the sooner you're out of here." Dean nodded, eyes closed, and John watched as he tried to shift again, wincing in pain. He'd asked the doctors to lower the dozes of Dean's pain medication – after all, it won't be available when they're back at the motel. It looks like he would have to ask them to get it back up.

* * *

The next day seemed to be a better day. Dean stayed awake longer, almost made it all the way to the bathroom and back, and seemed completely coherent. He told John he was feeling better, that getting out of bed was helping. Knowing his son, John knew it probably was. Dean always hated being still, being in one place for too long. It used to make him go nuts. Dean constantly needed to move, to constantly be doing something. He was trying, John knew. He worried Dean might be trying too hard, but on the other hand, he was glad to see his son improve, glad that his choice was made easier. He would speak to the doctor, get Dean out of this hospital and into someplace safe. John waited for as long as he could, watching Dean like a hawk all day, until finally that evening, just before Dean's doctor was about to leave herself, he told her he wanted to take his son home with him. Needless to say, she was not happy. 

"Sir, I really think you're making a mistake. Dean really shouldn't leave the hospital." Doctor Riley said.

"He's just lying there, right? I mean, he just has to stay in bed all the time and not eat any junk food, right?" the doctor sighed, glancing at the hopeful face of her young patient.

"Listen, Mr. Winchester, I know kids can nag and whine until you want to slap their mouths shut, but I really don't think you should let him get away with it this time." She said, "I understand that Dean wants to go home, but I'll feel better if he stays here a few more days." Dean glared at her, but had the sense to keep quiet.

"His head injury is no longer a problem, correct?" John asked. The doctor sighed, but nodded reluctantly. "And his kidneys are doing better?"

"He still needs to be monitored, we need to test his blood to make sure…"

"Then I'll bring him back. Every day, to have his blood tested." John offered. Dean gave him a thankful look. Doctor Riley hesitated.

"He shouldn't be moved."

"But I'm already walking," Dean interjected, "I can cross the room and back. I'm even having my cast taken off next weekend." He said quickly.

"I'll make sure he stays in bed, gets a lot to drink, lots of rest…" John nodded. Riley glanced at Dean again, and then sighed, scratching the side of her head.

"You do understand, getting him out of the hospital right now is a risk?" She said, "You will be taking him against medical advice, you realize that, right?" she asked.

"He needs rest, he can rest better at home." John said, though the doctor's look was starting to make him hesitate.

"He shouldn't get out of bed without someone there to watch him, do you hear me?" she addressed the younger hunter, and then turned her gaze to the father. "He may look better, but he's still all bruised up from the inside. Moving too fast, it can create problems." She said sternly.

"I'll stay in bed, promise." Dean chimed in. John gave him a long look that said 'you will, and you'll give me no lip about it'. Dean nodded. Riley nodded back, exhaling loudly as Dean's lips broke in a grin.

"All right," she said, "I have to say, I'll be more relaxed if Dean stayed under observation a few more days, but… if there's nothing I can do to make you change your mind…"

"So I can get out of here? I can go home? Like, today?" Dean asked, and John nearly rolled his eyes, but then noticed Dean didn't sound half as excited as he'd expected him to be. A glimpse in the boy's direction showed Dean was having trouble keeping his eyes open, and it was getting late…

"Mr. Winchester, I would urge you to reconsider. Caution is the best way of action in this case." Riley said, and Dean scowled at her through heavy lidded eyes. John nodded.

"He'll stay the night." He said, and Riley nodded, ignoring Dean's cry of protest.

"You're making the right choice." She said. John sighed, scratching at his beard.

"Yeah? You spend the night listening you him ranting on and on about going home…" he muttered. The doctor smiled at him.

"I can always throw in a stronger sedative." She offered, but there was no real need. Dean was already drifting off. John followed the doctor out of his son's room.

"Doctor Riley," he started, hesitating. The woman turned, looking quizzically at him. "If I take him home, he'll be okay, won't he?" John asked. She looked him up and down before she answered.

"Honestly? If he were my son, I'd tape his mouth shut and keep him here. He's not out of the woods yet." She said. John nodded. That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear.

TBC

So Dean is finally better and about to leave the hospital. But things are never that easy when it comes to the Winchesters, is it?

Please review!


	6. Aftershock

Chapter Six – Aftershock

"That's pretty good. Take it easy, though." Derek said, holding his hands out just in case Dean faltered.

"I got it," Dean muttered, refusing Derek's help. He was disappointed to still be in the hospital. He wanted, needed, to get away, to feel safe again, and he was determined to do whatever it took to get out of the hospital. Even if it meant gritting his teeth at the intolerable pain in his abdomen and pretend he wasn't exhausted beyond exhaustion.

His father had been watching him like a hawk, making it all that much difficult not to break, not to falter. But he was a Winchester. He was stubborn, and it paid off. Finally, his father had relented and went to get the AMA papers.

"Almost there. You're doing great." Derek said encouragingly. Dean clenched his jaw, nodding lightly. He was half way from the bathroom to the bed, just a few more steps and he was back in bed, a few more steps and he could rest; lay down, close his eyes and give his beaten body some reprieve.

He took a deep breath, concentrating on putting one leg ahead of the other, keeping his eyes on his target, pretending this was just another hunt. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes momentarily as a wave of blinding pain erupted in his stomach. He bit his lip to stop from crying out, letting out a hiss of pain, wincing. His heart was racing a mile a minute, every beat spreading more pain through his already exhausted body.

"Yeah, I think I have to sit down now," Dean breathed, nearly doubling over, one hand wrapped around his midsection, the other holding the IV stand for dear life. Stars were bursting in front of his eyes. He gasped in pain, a strangled cry escaping his lips.

"You okay?" Derek asked worriedly, holding onto him, not letting him fall down. The world was swimming around him, pain hitting him in waves. He bit hard into his lip, doing his best to just stay on his feet, pain clearly etched onto his face.

"Need to sit." He panted. It took Derek less then two seconds to get the wheelchair, but to Dean, it felt like forever. Derek helped Dean into the chair as Dean blinked in pain, teeth gritted, hands shaking.

"Dean, you okay, man?" Derek asked worriedly. He was standing right next to Dean, his hand touching Dean's shoulder, but his voice sounded faraway, like he was standing outside the room. Dean clenched his jaw, his hands clenched into fists, fingers digging into his flesh. Darkness was starting to cloud his peripheral vision, but the pain kept coming, exploding through Dean's body. "I'm gonna call someone." Derek said, his voice distant and weak. Dean grabbed onto the therapist's shirt, keeping him close.

_This will pass_, Dean told himself, _he just had to breathe through the pain, that's all. It'll be alright. There's no way I'm staying at the hospital just because of one moment of weakness_. He shook his head.

"No, wait," he breathed through gritted teeth, trying to swallow, his mouth suddenly beyond dry. "Just… just give me a minute, okay?" He said, trying to blink the darkness away. Derek crouched next to him, his hand still on Dean's shoulder, studying Dean's pain-filled face.

"You want to try and drink something?" Derek offered, seeing the color draining from his patient's face. Dean shook his head, just trying to breathe through the pain. "Okay, let's get you back in bed." Derek said, getting up and wheeling Dean the rest of the way to the bed.

"No!" Dean gasped, just the thought of getting up, of changing his position, was painful. He couldn't move, couldn't possibly get up. Breathing was becoming difficult, or rather, remembering to breathe was becoming difficult. He just had to wait it out, ride the pain out. _It'll be alright in a minute_, he told himself. It had to be, because he couldn't stand this pain for much longer.

Derek gave him a worried look, and then reached for the call button to summon the nurses. Dean raised his hand, motioning Derek to stop, and forced himself to take a deep breath. He winced, gasping, blinking fast. "I just… I just need a minute is all." He said, "You were right, I guess… I was pushing too hard… Should've rested before making the way back." Dean forced the words out. The pain will go away eventually, but if Derek presses that button, Dean's chances of getting out of the hospital today were non-existent. _He just needed a moment_… Dean winced, biting hard on his lip to keep from crying out.

"Hey, buddy." John said as he got in the room. Derek turned to look at him as Dean cursed under his breath and forced a smile onto his lips, praying he didn't look half as bad as he felt. "How's it going?" John asked, leaning against the wall and eyeing his son. Dean smirked, doing his best to look like he was okay.

"I'm fine." Dean said quickly, not letting Derek answer, "Didn't make it all the way back to bed, though." He added needlessly, trying to keep his voice casual, hoping his father didn't catch the hitch in his voice. He smirked again, raising his brows and wishing he could just curl into a ball and pass out.

"Obviously," John noted.

"Did you sign the papers?" Dean asked eagerly. John studied him, and all Dean could think about was a string of very juicy and colorful curses.

"So, you're better now?" Derek asked, and Dean groaned inwardly, keeping his smirk on, jaw clenched. He gave his father a quick glance.

"Yeah," He said, as if it were obvious, "yeah, I'm good. Just needed to catch my breath." He said, hands still clenched into fists, nails biting into flesh.

Derek nodded. "Okay." He said, "So let's get you back in bed. You think you can make it on your own?" the therapist asked, a little confused by his patient's quick recovery. _Hell, no_, Dean thought, but gave Derek a cocky look.

"Sure." He smiled. _Am I standing up yet? Oh, goddammit, crap, crap, crap…_ Dean thought, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath that cut through him, sending waves of mind-numbing pain through his tortured body. In his mind, Dean screamed his guts out. In reality, he bit his lip, unable to hide a wince of pain as he took another breath, holding it, and pushed out of the wheelchair.

Derek was quick to hold onto his arm, guiding him onto the bed, and Dean wished he could scream and curse out loud. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, dampened his short hair, rolled down his spine, and _damn, it **hurt!**_

Dean was still biting his lip, breathing hard through his nose, fighting the darkness that encompassed so much more of his peripheral vision by now. His hands were shaking, his legs practically made of rubber, but he couldn't afford to let it show. He couldn't show any weakness, or he wouldn't be allowed out of the hospital. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, he knew it was probably even dangerous, but he couldn't help it. He was scared, and not knowing exactly what it was that was scaring him – well, that was terrifying. Fear he could handle. As long as he understood it, as long as he knew where it was coming from. But this? This was instinct. As twisted and stupid as it may seem, he _had_ to get out of that hospital.

Dean tried to stifle a hiss. Lying flat on his back was _not_ helping. At all. He turned onto his side, but that only elicited another hiss, and a muffled curse. He pulled his knees up, because he couldn't even breathe otherwise, squeezing his eyes shut as his heart pumped harder, making the pain spread faster.

He did his best to keep his game face on, though, the only lucid thought breaking through the haze of pain was getting out of the hospital, getting someplace safe. He knew he couldn't possibly keep this up for long, couldn't possibly keep pretending everything was okay, that he didn't want to scream and cry in pain. He had to get rid of his dad, and he had to do it now.

"Well, I'm kind of beat." He said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant. "I think I'm gonna get some shut eye, get my strength back for the ride home." He said, his voice strangled, his mouth dry. The world was growing darker by the second, sound was dimming, his vision swimming. He thought he heard his father saying something, but didn't quite catch the words. John pushed away from the wall.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Derek asked, touching his shoulder, looking more concerned than Dean wanted him to look. Dean nodded, smiling weakly, wishing everyone would just go away already so he could burry his face in his pillow and scream. "Maybe you should try drinking now?" Derek offered, and _damn it, can't he just get the hell out of here and leave me alone_?

"No, man, I'm good." Dean said, swallowing, his eyes closed. "Tired." He added. Derek gave a little nod.

"Okay then. Take it easy, man." He said, exchanging a couple of words with John on his way out. Dean couldn't care less. He just wanted, _needed_, to be left alone right now, away from scrutinizing eyes.

"Hey, you sure you're okay there, sport? You look kind of pale…" _damn it Dad, now you start caring? Isn't there a hunt you need to be on, or some research that needs to be done right now? You know, anywhere else?_

"Well, let me out of here, and that nice sun outside would take care of that right away. I'll be good as new." Dean rasped. He couldn't see his father's reaction with his eyes closed, and if John had said anything, it was lost in the rushing of the blood in Dean's ears. Dean could barely feel his father's hand on his leg.

"Just get some sleep, Dean." John said.

"Yes, sir." Dean practically whispered, pulling his legs closer to his chest, wincing, breathing hard.

He blinked a few times as realization took hold.

Something was wrong, _very_ wrong, his brain kept screaming at him, but it was too late now. The pain was too much for him to handle anymore. He gaped, breaking in sweat, trying to… just hold on, but he lost the fight, passing out.

* * *

"Hey, kiddo. Thanks." John greeted his youngest, taking the offered cup of coffee from him. 

"Is Dean coming home today?" Sam asked anxiously. John took a cautious sip from the hot drink, bobbing his head yes and no.

"I'm getting the AMA papers now, but we'll stay at the motel for a while, until I'm sure your brother's really out of the woods." John said. He eyed his youngest. "You're missing a lot of school." he noted. Sam shrugged.

"I'll catch up." He said dryly, "Is he alone? Can I go see him?" Sam asked eagerly. John nodded lightly.

"He just finished his workout. Looks like hell if you ask me. He's really tired, Sammy, so let him rest." John said, a hint of warning in his tone. Sam nodded.

"He made it all the way to the bathroom and back?" Sam asked. John gave him a long look, and then shook his head slightly. Sam frowned. "It's only a few feet, Dad. It's what, his forth try? Shouldn't he be getting better at this? I mean, shouldn't he be walking around already?" Sam asked, voicing John's own thoughts. The older Winchester sighed.

"Give your brother time. He needs the rest." He said, "I mean it, Sammy, don't go asking too many questions or tease him too much, just let your brother rest, alright?" he repeated. Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir." He said, quickly heading for Dean's room. John took another sip from the hot drink, walking over to the nurses' station to sign the papers. He still wasn't a hundred percent sure this was the right thing to do. Dean kept saying that's what he wanted, but… John had a feeling his son could use some more downtime. He'd already asked Sammy to draw salt lines in the motel room; in front of the door and window, and around the beds. He'd given Sam Cat's Eye shells to spread around the room, and started listing all the other protective charms he would have to put up once they got there.

"Here you go, Mr. Winchester." Said a middle aged nurse that looked like she was sixty and should probably have chosen another profession.

He thanked her none the less, drinking his coffee and going over the papers. It wasn't the first time he'd seen AMA papers, probably won't be the last time, either. John reached in his pocket, looking for his pen. That's odd, he could have sworn… He searched another pocket, and smiled to himself as he retrieved the pen. This was _not_ a sign that he was getting older, and he'd dare anyone to say otherwise. He signed the first two of three places, only to realize the pen's ink was getting too faint, so he asked a nurse for another pen, thanking her as he took it, and grinning as she tried to flirt with him. _He still had it in him, no doubt._

"Dad!" Sam's frantic cry made him turn. "Dad, something's wrong!" John's stomach lurched, his heart rate skyrocketed as he raced back to his oldest son's room. "He was like that when I came in," Sam explained, "I didn't like that he was so pale, so I asked him if he were alright…" Sam looked fearfully from his father to his brother. John touched his son's too pale face. Dean's skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and he was still lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position. "I tried to wake him up… I know you said not to, but he wouldn't wake up…" Sam added in a small, frightened voice. John reached for his son's cold hand.

"Dean, son, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand, okay?" he asked, and waited.

"Dad?" Sam was reaching full-blown panic mode. John looked at him, then back at Dean. With a shaky hand, the eldest Winchester found the nurses' call button, pushing it repeatedly.

"We need help in here!" he cried out in frustration and a hint of panic. Sam just stood there, looking fearfully from his brother to his father and back again.

A nurse came in a moment later, and John snapped at her, yelling at her to get a doctor in there. The nurse went over to Dean's bed to check for the boy's pulse. Her face was a stoic mask as she searched for the faint beat, as she touched the cold skin. And then she rushed outside, calling for everyone she could find.

The next minute the room erupted in a flurry of action as a couple of doctors and a few nurses took over, pushing both John and Sam out of their way. The father and son could do nothing more than watch, hearts pounding.

"He's barely responsive to pain." One of the nurses noted as another brought an assortment of medical instruments.

"His abdomen is rigid." One of the doctors called, as another ordered a couple of nurses around, telling them to inject Dean with this and that.

"There's blood in his urine." One of the nurses called. "You want to do an endoscopy?" Sam looked up at John, eyes wide with fear. John's own throat was constricting. All he could do was watch, helpless, as doctors and nurses fluttered about Dean's bed. Sam gasped as a spray of blood erupted from a newly made incision.

"Damn it, he's bleeding out!" one of the doctors cried.

"BP's falling!" a nurse cried out.

"Must have blown a blood clot." The other doctor commented.

"He needs an OR, now! Lydia, call the OR, tell them we're coming. Tell them to have at least… six units of blood, type specific!" the first doctor cried and one of the nurses left the room in a hurry, just as another announced that Dean's stopped breathing.

They quickly intubated him and rushed him outside the room and over to the operating rooms, still calling out orders on the way. The room fell into an eerie silence, as the two remaining Winchesters stared around them in shock. All that was left in the room were a few medical kits, a few bloody, disposable sterile gloves and robes on the floor, and a red splash of blood where Dean's bed had been just moments ago.

"Dad?" Sam looked up at the oldest Winchester, his voice thick, tears in his eyes. John stared at the vacant space that used to occupy his son's bed with horror-filled eyes, saying nothing.

A moment later, he stormed out of the room and over to the nurses' station, grabbing the AMA papers and ripping them into pieces, because Dean can bitch and argue all he wants, but there's no way he's getting out of the hospital without a clean bill of health, and John'd be damned if Dean is _ever_ hunting by himself again.

TBC

A/N: Yes, Dean can be a stubborn fool sometimes, but it just goes with the Winchester family name.

I do hope the descriptions were realistic enough and that you could see it in your mind's eye. I'd sure like to know what you thought about this chapter. Please review.


	7. Beneath the Surface

A/N: Honestly, I really didn't plan on updating so soon. I was supposed to update on the weekend - but I've hit my review mark. So you see; reviewing equals speedy update. So thank you so much to each and every one who reviewed, you really do help me write faster, and I appreciate your support!

Chapter Seven – Beneath the Surface

Sam sat by his brother's bed, still a little shaken up. The surgery lasted about four hours, they had nearly lost Dean, again. Sam kept seeing those moments over and over again in his head; walking into his brother's room, seeing him lying all curled up and pale, talking to him, shaking him without being able to wake him up. Just the thought made Sam's heart beat faster.

Dean was in the ICU again. The doctors had said it was probably a complication from the earlier operation; that either a blood clot was created after the surgery or one was there before and prevented the surgeons from seeing a small tear in one of his organs. Sam stopped listening at some point. Probably after the doctors said that had they found him even five minutes later it would have been too late. Which meant that, had Sam actually remembered to stop and buy Dean the magazine he'd asked for, Dean would have died. It was too scary a thought for the fifteen year old to handle.

Sam straightened in his seat as Dean's eyes began to flutter, his head slowly rolling from side to side. Sam leaned forward, closer to his brother.

"Hey," he said, reaching for Dean's hand, "hey, you're alright." Sam said, his voice strangled. Dean blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. "And I'm totally pissed at you, big brother. I had a date with Linda Sinclair and I blew it off. Now she probably won't go out with me, and there goes two month of trying to get to third base with her, thanks to you." Sam added with a small grin. Dean fought to keep his eyes open, his hand reaching slowly for his oxygen mask, pulling it aside.

"Wuss." He said, before letting his hand drop. "Takes you two months and you still didn't get to third base?" the older brother croaked. Sam laughed, though, for some reason, his eyes watered. He leaned forward, placing the oxygen mask back onto Dean's mouth and nose.

Dean was still extremely pale. He was hooked back up to all the monitors, and still looked like roadkill. Well, actually, roadkill looked better.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked. Dean closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

"I really don't want to find out," Dean admitted, "so don't you let them take away the drugs, 'kay, little brother?" Sam smiled despite of himself. Dean _was_ hooked up to some very powerful painkillers.

"I don't know," Sam tapped his lips with his long finger, "you did just make fun of me about missing my date…" he said thoughtfully. He frowned when there was no snarky comeback. "Hey, Dean, you still with me?" Sam asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"What happened?" Dean asked weakly.

"They said something about a rupture and internal bleeding." Sam said somberly. Dean blinked a few times, trying to get his head to work through the haze of pain medication. He tried to lift his left hand, but the cast made it too heavy, so he let it drop, scratching the side of his face with his right instead.

"Sounds bad." He said. "Was it?" he asked, unsure. Sam snorted.

"Not as bad as me standing Rosemary up. You know Rosemary, don't you? She's the one with the really big boobs." He said, grinning. Dean tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob, his arm wrapping around his midsection.

"Don't make me laugh, Sammy." he said tiredly. "You'd never score a date with Rosemary." He added with a wince a moment later.

"I could." Sam said quickly. Dean snorted.

"Yeah right. A date with Rosemary, and you'd stand her up? Not a... flying chance." Dean said, wincing again. Sam frowned.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked. Dean swallowed hard, taking shallow breaths.

"Sort of depends," he breathed, "What's your definition of okay?" Sam took that as a no, and pressed the call button. Dean forced his eyes open again and looked around. "Where's Dad?" he wheezed.

"Went to call Caleb to take a job Dad was supposed to go on, and to call Rick, see if he can get your car back."

"Oh, that's good news. Should have started with that." Dean breathed, and Sam watched as the heart monitor picked up pace and the blood pressure monitor shifted. A few minutes and a couple of meds injected into his IV later, Dean was sleeping again and Sam was left watching him.

* * *

The next time Dean opened his eyes, it was his father, and not his brother, sitting with him. He was still hooked up to akk the monitors. 

"Dad?" Dean croaked, flinching at the sound of his own voice as his father turned from his work.

"About time you woke up," John said. Dean blinked owlishly. His mind was working alarmingly slow. "You really had me there for a moment, kiddo." John went on, "Keep it up, and you'll give me gray hair." He said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I know you don't think much of it now, but just wait ten, fifteen years, you'll see what I'm talking about." Dean rolled his eyes, and decided he won't be doing that again until he was sure which side was up and which was down. "So, no giving your old man any more gray hairs, okay? Otherwise I'll stop being Super-Cool Dad and start showing your baby pictures to all your dates." John continued. Dean raised a brow.

"You don't have any baby pictures of me. All burnt up." He said thickly. John smiled mischievously.

"You wanna bet?" he asked, "I kept a few, for blackmailing purposes." He said in his most serious tone, though the twinkle in his eyes sort of gave him away. "So you're gonna have to stop giving me heart attacks and get well quickly, or I'm posting them online."

"Would work better as a threat if you actually knew how to use a computer, Dad." Dean noted.

"Are you giving me lip, boy?" John raised a brow, but Dean ignored him.

"Where's Sammy?" he asked.

"Motel." John said, getting up and bringing over a glass of water. "He was driving me nuts." He added, sitting back down and helping Dean drink with a straw. Dean took a few sips before closing his eyes again, feeling tired and weak.

"Don't like him being alone." He said, "Not safe."

"He'll be alright." John assured the older brother.

"Keep him away from her." Dean muttered, already half asleep. John frowned.

"Away from who?" he asked, "Away from who, Dean?" the hunter repeated when his son failed to answer.

"That woman. Real bitch." Dean murmured, "Can't let her get Sammy. She's after Sammy." John's heart skipped a beat, and then nearly stopped when the next words left Dean's mouth; "She'll go after him once she's done with me. She's… her eyes…" Dean's voice was growing weaker and a little slurred. "Don't let her find Sammy…"

* * *

"So, what's the verdict, doc? Is it a boy or a girl?" Dean asked, staring at the black and white screen. The doctor spared him a raised-eyebrow look. 

"Cute." She said as she continued to run the scanner slowly over Dean's belly, looking for any sign of internal bleeding using the ultrasound. Sam, on the other hand, giggled at his brother's comment. "Any abdominal pain?" the doctor asked as she continued her scan.

"Yeah," Dean admitted, "some." He said, and directed her towards where the pain was strongest. She didn't detect any bleeding, though she did write a lot in Dean's chart.

The doctor spoke to John, ignoring the two boys and their jokes. She quickly finished her exam, wiping the gel gently off of Dean's belly, and left the room, John at her heel.

"She's cute." Sam noted. Dean raised a brow. "What? She is." Sam said defensively. Dean smirked, giving his little brother a funny look, but didn't say anything. "So… is it really bad?" Sam asked after a moment. Dean raised a brow questioningly, rubbing at the remaining of the gel on his stomach.

"What is?" he asked.

"You said it still hurts…" Sam said in a small voice, knowing that it had to be pretty bad for his older brother to admit to being in pain. Dean rubbed at his forehead.

"It's not too bad, Sammy. But I'm pretty sure I screwed up any chance I had of leaving this place." He said tiredly. Sam snorted. That was an understatement.

"What the hell happened out there, Dean? I mean, you usually just get tossed around a bit, not…" Sam couldn't even finish his sentence. Dean tried to push himself up, grimaced, and flopped back onto his pillow.

"Wasn't a poltergeist." He said tiredly.

"Then what was it?" Sam asked. Dean shrugged.

"Something else." He said, eyes already closing. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You really had a date with Rosemary?" Dean asked, trying to scratch his hand through the cast. Sam grinned.

"Nah, she has a crush on you." he admitted.

"Damn straight." Dean smirked, opening one eye to gauge his brother's reaction. Sam laughed, shaking his head.

"Hey, Dean, I guess you have an answer to your question." Sam said a moment later. Dean opened one, heavy lidded eye, looking questioningly at his little brother. "Looks like a boy." Sam smirked, jutting his head at the male nurse who just came in, pushing a large washbasin with lukewarm water and a sponge. Dean's eyes shot open in horror, and then he groaned as Sam laughed. _Must this hospital destroy every fantasy he had about sponge baths?_

"Oh, come on," Sam laughed, "I think you two make a lovely couple." He teased, and Dean shot him a death glare. "I'm sure if you ask nicely, Hans here will give you his phone number." Sam smirked as Dean glared at him. He grunted as the nurse raised the bed so it was easier for him to sit. Dean winced, biting his lip, feeling a sudden attack of vertigo. The nurse noticed the color draining from Dean's face and asked him if he needed to hurl. Dean shook his head, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam asked worriedly. Dean swallowed hard.

"Give me a second." He asked, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Hey, Sammy, hand me that glass, would you?" Dean asked hoarsely, and Sam was quick to hand over the glass of water. The cool liquid helped a little, and Dean let his head drop back to the pillow, no longer caring if the nurse was male, female, or human, for that matter. He just wanted them gone so he could sleep.

"You okay there, kid?" the nurse asked.

"Yeah," Dean licked his lips. "A little dizzy, but I'm better now." He said, eyes still closed. The nurse glanced at the heart monitor Dean was still hooked up on, as well as at Dean's blood pressure.

"Pressure's a little low. Have you eaten today?" the nurse asked. Dean shook his head. He tried to eat his lunch, but felt so bad after just a couple of bites he had given up on the rest. The nurse nodded at him, taking Dean's chart, going over a few pages and scribbling Dean's vitals before going back to the washbasin. "Okay, let's get this done, get you into some clean clothes, and then get you some food. How does that sound?" he asked.

"Could we, maybe do it later? I just want to sleep." Dean said weakly.

"I'll be quick, I promise." The nurse said. "You okay with your brother in the room or would you rather he got out?" the nurse, whose name was Travis, judging by his name tag, asked.

"He can stay if he wants." Dean said tiredly, forcing his eyes open as he felt the comforter being pulled down. Travis carefully helped Dean take his shirt off. Sam gasped at the sight of his brother's bruised torso, knowing the worst of it was still covered in bandages.

"You sure you wanna see this?" Travis asked as he prepared fresh bandages and antiseptic cream. Sam nodded lightly, holding onto Dean's hand. He didn't care what Dean might think, how he might tease him, didn't care about the way Dean looked at him. Right now, Sam needed his big brother. "Okay then, let's start." Travis said, removing the temporary bandage the doctor had placed over Dean's sutures after the ultrasound. "Tell me if it's too tender, okay?" he asked as he dipped the sponge in the water and ran it gently over Dean's belly. Dean hissed, biting his lip, wincing. Travis smiled sympathetically, running the sponge gently over Dean's tender abdomen, wiping and cleaning all traces of the gel. He then proceeded to re-bandaging the wounds. Sam squeezed Dean's hand reassuringly as the older brother still bit into his lower lip, fighting the whimpers that threatened to leave his lips.

Next came the chest. Travis prodded the large bandage covering the upper left side of Dean's chest gently. He stopped, looking at Dean. "You want a minute?" the nurse asked.

"Yes, please." Dean breathed, closing his eyes.

"Want me to get a doctor in here?" Travis suggested. Dean opened his eyes, though he looked up at the ceiling and not at anyone in the room.

"I'll be alright." Dean said in a shaky voice.

"Dean…" Sam cautioned. He knew his brother enough to know 'I'll be alright' could be a synonym to 'I could be dying'.

"I'm fine, Sammy." Dean swallowed, "Just tender, is all. Don't worry, I don't plan on having another surgery. I want out of here, remember?" Sam frowned. That was exactly what worried him. Dean took a deep breath. "It's okay, you can continue." He told Travis. The nurse hesitated a moment, but continued as he noticed the color coming back to the older brother's face. He gently peeled away the surgical tape around the bandage, removing it, and brought over the sponge to clean Dean's chest.

Sam sucked in his breath, his eyes going wide. It was the first time he'd actually seen the wound on his brother's chest. And seeing it now, he knew for certain his Dad hadn't seen it. "Sam? What is it?" Dean asked worriedly. "It's okay, it doesn't hurt nearly as much as…" but Sam wasn't listening anymore. He broke into a run, rushing out of the room in search for his father.

* * *

John scratched his head. "But he's not doing as well as he should." He surmised, looking at the doctor tiredly. The past couple of weeks were taking their toll on him; emotionally as well as physically. 

"We'll take some more blood after he rests some more, see if there's any change." The doctor said, "He's doing very well, considering."

"But not as well as you expected." John finished. The doctor pushed her glasses higher up her nose. She was about to say something when a running Sam skidded to a halt, wide-eyed and pale, looking as though he had seen a ghost. Well, as if he'd seen something scary and unexpected.

"Sam?" John's heart started racing, his mouth going dry.

"Dad, you have to come, right now!" Sam said urgently.

"Is it Dean?" John asked. The look on his youngest's face was enough to propel him into action. He exchanged a quick glance with the doctor before rushing back to his son's room. Sam stopped at the door, looking expectantly at his father. "Is he alright? What is it?" John asked worriedly, pushing into the room. And then he froze. His eyes locked on his older son's chest.

"Dad?" Dean asked.

"Sammy, go get my journal out of the car." John said curtly. "And get all the salt you can find."

TBC


	8. New Terrain

Chapter Eight – New Terrain 

John sat by his sleeping son's hospital bed, his journal in his lap as he squinted his eyes in the dim light and read from an old book he managed to find. Sammy was watching the tiny TV in a chair next to him. John glanced at both his sons sporadically, making sure they were both all right.

Dean was out cold, pain medication combined with exhaustion taking their toll on his eldest. John scrubbed a hand over his tired face before staring at the scribbling in his journal. A new entry, starting with a sketch. A symbol, the same one he was trying to find in the book, the same one he'd faxed Bobby earlier. A strange looking beast inside an upturned triangle, circled by writings in a language John couldn't understand. Something did this to his boy. Something hurt his son and branded him. And that something was going to die.

* * *

A little over a week later, Dean was finally discharged from the hospital. The Winchesters would probably have sighed in relief if it weren't for the fact that Dean was not getting better – that is to say, he could get out of bed, though the doctors recommended he did as little of that as possible, and he could walk around some. His blood pressure stabilized, the external bruises faded and the internal ones were beginning to heal. Which didn't explain why he was still so weak. The tests have shown nothing, but John had his own suspicions. 

Dean didn't resent being wheeled over to the hospital entrance in a wheelchair, but Sam suspected it had something to do with a certain nurse. John brought the car over as close as possible, getting out and ready to help his oldest to the car, but Dean pushed out of the wheelchair on his own, and with a smirk and a wink to the lovely nurse, made his way to the car on his own. Wobbly as that might have been, it was still good to see him up and about. Dean made it to the passenger seat, and Sam exchange a quick look with his father.

"Get in the back, Dean." John said quickly. Dean made a face.

"Nah, it's okay, I want to ride shotgun." He said, opening the passenger side door only to have Sam close it.

"In the back, Dean." Sam said insistently.

"But I called shotgun," Dean protested.

"Yeah, and I've got one. Get in the back Dean, that's an order." John clipped. Dean rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.

John gave the hospital one more look, still a little apprehensive, but then got in the truck himself, turning the engine on and driving away, back to their rental apartment. He looked at the rear view mirror, catching a glimpse of his children.

It used to be simpler; Sam and Dean in the back seat, playing games, annoying him and each other in the long car rides from Nowheresville to Generic Town, USA. They used to talk and laugh and tease.

Another glimpse in the rear view mirror showed a worried teenage Sam and a ragged looking Dean. They were both quiet. Dean's head was resting against the window as he stared blindly at the quickly changing view. The quietness was grating on John's nerves. He turned on the radio. That worked. John smiled a little at the twin flinches from both his sons.

"Daaaaad!" they protested in unison.

"You know the rules, boys. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." John stated. Sam rolled his eyes, Dean huffed, but neither said anything else to him. John's smile grew a little when he glanced in the mirror again to find his sons whispering to each other, Sam actually giggling.

Twenty minutes later, it was becoming obvious Dean was less than comfortable, and the next time John glanced at his sons through the rear view mirror, Dean was lying across the backseat, his head in Sam's lap, his eyes closed, his face wrinkled with pain.

"Dean, you alright back there?" John asked. Dean quickly opened his eyes.

"Just needed to lie down." He said, offering his father a small smile.

The smile quickly vanished, though, and the silence returned to the car – John even lowered the volume on the radio so he could hear any sound coming from either of his sons.

"Dad?" Dean asked some fifteen minutes later, his eyes closed this time.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"How long?" John risked another glance at the mirror. Dean was pale.

"Not too long." He promise, pressing harder on the accelerator.

"Hey, Dad?" Sam ventured a moment later.

"What is it, Sammy?" John gave him a long glance in the mirror.

"You think we could find more in the library back home?" he asked after a while.

"I hope so." John answered.

"Why hasn't Bobby called you back yet?" Sam demanded.

"I don't know, Sammy." The older hunter answered truthfully.

"You think that's what's making him sick?" Sam asked in a small voice some moments later. John glanced in the mirror again, locking eyes with his youngest.

"We'll figure it out, Sammy." he promised after a moment, returning his attention to the road.

"Hey, _him_ is sitting right here." Dean said irritably. Sam ignored him.

"We need to check the house. We need to put salt everywhere, put up some charms, maybe even a spell…" Sam spoke, probably more to himself than anyone else. John didn't answer. He turned up the heat a little.

* * *

They arrived at the apartment a few hours later. Dean seemed to have fallen asleep a while earlier, though it seemed his sleep was rather restless. John stepped out of the truck, walking over to the back and opening the back door. He shook Dean's shoulder gently. 

"Hey, champ, we're home." The oldest Winchester said. Dean blinked owlishly at him for a couple of seconds before he even tried to get up. "Easy," John cautioned at the pained wince on Dean's face. "You need some help there, tiger?" he offered.

"Nah, I'm…" Dean scrubbed at his face, pushing himself up, forcing himself out of the car. "I'm good." He muttered tiredly. Getting out the door proved a little trickier, but Dean still refused Sam's help. He was hit by vertigo after taking just one step, and had to close his eyes. Sam was quick to hold on to his elbow, looking uncertainly at their father.

"Dean?" John asked. Dean swallowed hard.

"Dizzy." He said, and Sam guided him back so he was leaning against the truck.

"Take your time." Sam said. Dean gave a slight nod.

"Hey, Sammy, why won't you get the door opened for us?" John suggested, tossing Sam the keys. Sam nodded quickly, making his way to the door and unlocking it.

"Hey 't's my baby!" Dean slurred a little, causing John to frown, but Dean just had a stupid grin on his lips as he swayed towards the Impala, parked at the front of the house. "I missed you." he said goofily, laying his head on the roof of the car once he got there, running a loving hand over the black metal. John eyed him carefully. "How'd she get here?" Dean asked, looking back at his father.

"I had Rick bring it over, remember?"

"Ah, who cares, m'baby's back!" Dean smirked.

"Son, we really should get you inside, get you in bed." John said.

"What, no dinner first? I'm not that cheap a date, you know." John raised a brow. "Yeah, alright." Dean said, taking another moment before making his way to the house on wobbly feet. He stopped at the front door and John was quick to hold on to his son's elbow.

"You okay?" he asked worriedly.

"What died in there?" Dean asked, raising a brow. John frowned, pushing Dean slightly so that he was leaning against the doorframe, and entered the house. Oh, yes, it reeked alright.

"Sam,"

"Already on it." Sam said from somewhere inside the house as he opened every window.

"Come on, sport, let's get you to your room." John turned back to his eldest.

"I can do it." Dean said, slowly making his way inside, with John staying right at his heel, eyeing him critically, watching his every move. Dean slumped down on his bed and hissed in pain. "Didn't remember it being this low." He muttered in way of apology to his old man.

"You want me to help you with your shoes?" John offered. Dean shook his head, jutting his head towards the adjacent bathroom.

"Kinda need to take care of some business first." Dean said. "Help me up?" he looked up at his father, and John hoisted him to his feet carefully, staying right by his son's side as he slowly made his way to the bathroom. "Okay, no need for you to go in there." Dean said, a little embarrassed, before he closed the door.

He sat on the toilet for a while, trying to gather up his strength for the way back. He eyed the shower. The small shower, the one that required standing up. This was going to be a bitch. But now wasn't the time to think about it. Determinedly, Dean pushed himself to his feet and somehow managed making it all the way back to his bed. He kicked his shoes off and crawled into bed, completely exhausted.

"You need anything else?" John offered.

"A chick, a beer and some privacy?" Dean tried. A shadow of a smile ghosted his father's lips as John ruffled his short hair.

"Just get some rest, kiddo. Call me if there's anything…" John said, and then thought better of his words. He knew Dean too well. "Call me if you need help with anything. Call your brother if you're bored." He amended. Dean smirked.

"Yes, sir." He said, his eyes already half-closed.

"And Dean?" Dean struggled to open his eyes and look at his father questioningly. "You are so never hunting alone again. And I mean ever. You got me?" John asked seriously.

"Oh, so you're not ready to get rid of me yet?" Dean smiled.

"No. You're the only one who can cook a decent meal around here." John grinned.

"That's true." Dean mumbled, eyes closed, as he drifted away into sleep.

* * *

"I opened all the windows, I hope the smell will clear out soon." Sam reported. "The kitchen is the worst, we left some food out." He said. John nodded, digging his wallet out of his pocket. 

"Listen, Sammy, I want you to go to the store, buy some food." He said, fishing out some bills and handing them over to Sam. "And real food, no junk food. Your brother still has to watch his diet." He added and Sam frowned.

"But why are we being punished?" he asked, and John smiled.

"Fine, get something for you if you want, but I mean it, healthy stuff. Fruit, vegetables, stuff like that." John said. Sam raised a brow.

"You really think you can make Dean eat vegetables? 'Cause that I've gotta see." He said. John cuffed him on the back of the head.

"Don't be a smartmouth." He said, "You should go. And be careful." John added. Sam nodded, heading for the door as John headed for the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose. It did smell really bad. He hoped Sam would be smart enough to get some air freshener. John walked over to the cabinets, opening one and taking a large canister of salt. He had a job to do.

* * *

John woke with a start at the sound of the phone ringing. For a slight second, he was overwhelmed by a sense of panic, his mind unconsciously going back to that phone call almost a month ago. But then he remembered both his sons were safe, both were home, and both were asleep. Well, not for long if he didn't pick up the damn phone. 

"This is John," he said around a jaw-popping yawn, blinking his eyes wide open.

"John, it's me. I'm sorry to be calling at this hour, I just figured you'd want an answer as soon as possible." John's eyes darted towards the alarm clock beside his bed. It was past three in the morning. "Winchester, you there?" John scrubbed his face, clearing his throat.

"Yes, Bobby, I'm here. Thanks for getting back to me." John said, shaking his head at the worried fifteen year old that appeared at his bedroom door.

"Well, I looked everywhere I could. I'm sorry, I have no idea what this thing is." Bobby said. John frowned.

"So you don't think it's some kind of demonic ritual?" he asked.

"Not one that I've ever heard of. I mean, the upturned triangle – it pops up in a few places, but the writing and the beast thing, I've never seen 'em before."

John ran a hand through his tousled hair, smothering another yawn. "I guess this is good news. I mean, it's probably not demonic then, right?"

"I wouldn't know." Bobby admitted. "I mean, you know as well as I do how many of them are out there. But it's nothing I've ever seen."

"Thanks, Bobby, I really appreciate it." John said, hanging up.

"Dad?"

"Go back to bed, Sammy." Sam gave him a look that said so many things, but John was just too tired to handle them right now. "To bed, Sammy. Now. And don't disturb the salt around the beds."

* * *

Dean woke up to the sound of an argument. _Well, of course. Home, sweet home, where it was business as usual_. He pushed himself to the side, slowly, carefully sitting up and waiting. No nausea, no sharp pain in his stomach, no throbbing in his chest. It was safe to try and make it out of bed. 

Slowly, Dean got off his bed, taking the time to get used to standing up before he attempted his first step. Experience had taught him that all too well. He carefully stepped over the salt circle and hissed at the sharp pain that suddenly seared through his chest. Dean swallowed his cry of pain, pressing his hand to his bandaged chest, and took a couple of deep breaths, stumbling against the wall as he waited for the pain to subside. Well, that was new. Dean slipped down to a crouch, trying to breathe through the pain.

His chest hurt all the time – or at least the symbol on his chest hurt all the time, but not like this. More like a heavy sort of pressure – uncomfortable, but tolerable. Dean glanced at the undisturbed circle of salt and cursed. That could _not_ be a good thing.

Dean hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do first; go to the bathroom, or play his role as referee and stop his father and brother from fighting. The shouting finally won. Especially after Dean realized what it was about. With a miserable whimper he'll later deny making, Dean pushed himself to his feet. He made his way to his father and brother, noting that it wasn't as difficult as it had been the day before, and listened a few more seconds.

"Sam, this is not a discussion! You're going, end of story!" John yelled.

"Like hell it is! I'm not going anywhere! You can't make me. You can drive me there, you can get me in class, but you'll have to spend every second with me or I'll just come back!" Sam yelled back. "I am not leaving him!"

"Yes, you are! You're going to school, Samuel!"

"No, I'm not!" Sam cried angrily. "I've been gone for weeks, what does a few more days matter?" he demanded.

"Because they do. I already called the school, explained why you were missing. I told them you were coming, and you're going, you hear me?" John snapped.

"No! I'm staying here with Dean!" Sam protested.

"You're going to school, Samuel, and that's an order!" John yelled.

"Am not!"

"Sammy," Dean's voice, though weak and far quieter than the other two's, still got both of their attentions. It was a little strange for him to see the expressions on their faces go from anger and frustration to worried and concerned. It was almost amusing to him. "You should listen to Dad, you should go to school." Dean said.

"What? No way! I'm staying home with you! I want to help Dad with the research, I can help! And I can help you, too, with the physical therapy and stuff. And I can stay with you so you don't get bored, and…"

"Sammy," Dean stopped his little brother, raising his hand a little. He leaned against the wall, shaking his head when his father gave him a worried look. "Look, you've gotta go to school." he said.

"Why?" Sam demanded. "Because he ordered me to?" he narrowed his eyes in anger, ready for the next round.

"No." Dean said calmly. "You have to go for three reasons." He said, "First, you're a geek. You've been outside your natural habitat for too long, who knows how long you can survive without some books around and some homework and tests to study for?" Dean said seriously, and then smirked. Sam seemed less than amused.

"You think it's funny?" he demanded. Dean shrugged. "I can make it all up later, I've already missed so much, another few days won't matter! I'm staying!" Sam insisted.

"Well, that brings us to reason number two." Dean said quickly, holding up two fingers and not giving John the chance to argue. Sam crossed his hands over his chest, waiting. "Look, Sammy," Dean sighed, "Dad's right about this. You've been gone too long. You've missed nearly a month. People are already asking questions, they're gonna give you a hard time as it is. Do you really want social services to get involved in this? You really think now is the time for that?" Dean demanded, "Do you really think Dad should have to deal with that, too, right now?" Sam blinked a couple of times, suddenly feeling very foolish. Of course they didn't need social services around, not now. Sam knew how worried their father had been lately, how hard he must have worked just to keep calm and level headed, how difficult it had been for him. For all of them. It didn't change the fact that he wanted, _needed_, to stay with Dean. That he _needed_ to know his brother was alright, to be able to go into their room and just see him breathe, to know he was still alive.

"But…"

"And third, and most important, I might add," Dean added quickly, and Sam looked up at him. "You have got to go back to school so you could grovel before Linda Sinclair, or you'll never get to third base with her, and that's downright embarrassing, man. I mean, you're my brother, you know, I have a reputation to protect here." Dean said seriously. He broke into a grin at the shocked look on his little brother's face, ignoring his father's groan. "A man needs priorities, you know." Dean added with a smirk and Sam rolled his eyes.

"You're sick. Seriously, man, you're sick." He said.

"I know. That's why I get to stay home and annoy the crap out of Dad. But you're not, so you get to go to school and get yourself a date with a hot chick. Or, you know, Linda." Dean smirked again. Sam scowled at him.

"Fine." He spat out eventually. "But you stay in bed and rest, you hear me? And if anything happens, _anything_, you come get me from school, okay?" he demanded.

"Nothing's gonna happen, Sammy." Dean promised.

"Okay?" Sam insisted.

"Yes, fine. I'll come get you." John promised. "Now go, I don't want you to be late." He added. Sam gave Dean another long look before going back to their room to grab his schoolbag and going to school.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" John asked, leaning against the wall next to his oldest.

"Hungry. And I really have to use the bathroom." Dean said. John smiled.

"I'll go make you breakfast. Get back in bed."

"You're gonna serve me breakfast in bed?" Dean raised a brow.

"That a problem?" John asked with a small smile. Dean shrugged.

"Nope. Just wish you were a hot woman, is all." He said. John laughed.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better today." He said.

"Yeah, Dad, about that, there's something I need to tell you…"

TBC

Not much of a cliffie this time, I know. Don't let that stop you from reviewing, ok?


	9. Secondary Tremor

Chapter Nine – Secondary Tremor

John Winchester snapped his head up from the paper he was reading at the sound of a strangled cry and the string of curses that followed it. Quickly putting the paper aside, the hunter rushed to his sons' room to find his oldest on his knees in front of his bed. It could almost be funny, it could almost look as if he were praying, if not for the blasphemy shooting out through his clenched teeth.

Dean rested his head against the mattress, not showing any sign that he was aware of his father's presence in the room. A very bad sign. John quickly kneeled by his son's side.

"Dean? What is it? What happened?" he asked worriedly, looking carefully at his son, searching for any sign of fresh injury. "Dean?" John pressed. Dean took a deep breath, and gave his father a small, frustrated look.

"Ten freakin' pushups!" he hissed. John frowned. "I could do seventy four pushups in one minute, no problem. Now I do ten freakin' pushups and I can't even breathe!" Dean snapped angrily, wincing, his hand wrapped around his stomach.

"Let's get you to bed." John said, "Come on, now." He grunted as he rose to his feet, and then pulled Dean up carefully by his elbow, sitting him down on the bed. Dean was sweating and a little unsteady, but he already seemed to be doing better. "You can't breathe?" John asked. Dean wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his other hand wrapped carefully around his midsection.

"I'm fine." He gritted. His father scowled.

"Dean!"

"I'm fine, my arm hurts, but it's fine." Dean said, carefully laying back.

"You had your cast removed two days ago, it's too early to put so much pressure on it." John said placatingly.

"Since when?" Dean bit out, glaring at his father. "Last time I broke it, you had me lifting weights the day the cast was off!"

"This is different." John said softly, reaching for his son, but Dean shrugged him away.

"It's taking too long." Dean said, forcing himself to sit back up.

"Dean, give yourself a break, sport." John said, touching his son's shoulder again. "You were hurt. Seriously, life-hanging-in-the-balance kind of hurt. Your body needs time…"

"I've been hurt this bad before. Didn't take so long to heal. I never take this long to heal!" Dean snapped, getting to his feet.

"Sit down, Dean!" John said as Dean started pacing in what he probably thought was a straight line but really wasn't. "Dean, sit, now! That's an order!" John demanded. Dean stopped, glared at him for a moment, but then did as he was told.

"I was fine! I mean, it still hurts like a bitch when I cross the salt lines, but I was fine! I took a shower, I made lunch, I was… I was just trying to get back in shape!" Dean said, his voice cracking, and John wondered, and not for the first time, how he could track and find patterns and trails other people never even thought of looking for or finding, but always seemed to miss what was going on around his own house. Now that he was aware of it, he suddenly smelled the mouth-watering aroma coming from the kitchen. He shook his head.

"You made lunch?" he asked.

"Yes." Dean shrugged, "Wasn't easy, either. Almost nothing to work with. I don't know who you sent shopping for groceries, but the fridge has almost only fruit and vegetables in it. There's practically nothing to eat." He grunted. John had to force the grin off his lips.

"You should have stayed in bed." He said firmly.

"I got bored." Dean protested. "Besides, I'm of no use to you lying around doing nothing."

"You're not doing nothing, Dean, you're healing, getting your strength back." John cut him off quickly. "You're no use to me bleeding to death, you hear me? I need you to get better."

"I'm _trying_!" Dean cried in frustration. "It's taking too damn long!" John did smile at that. He pulled his son to him. "What's wrong with me, Dad?" Dean asked in a trembling voice.

"I don't know yet." John admitted. "But I'm working on it, son."

"I want to help." Dean said simply.

"You can help by getting in bed." John said, and Dean rolled his eyes. "And eating your vegetables." John added and Dean snorted.

"I think I've suffered enough, thank you very much." He said, only to be cuffed on the back of the head.

"I'm serious here, Dean. I don't want you walking around the house, I don't want you making lunch and I sure as hell don't want you crossing the salt lines, do you understand? The doctor said you could leave the hospital if you promised to stay in bed, remember?"

"No," Dean said petulantly, "I promised to take it easy," he said, "and I am!"

"Fine. Then _I_ want you to stay in bed. You can lay in bed, lay on the couch if you want to watch some TV, or go to the bathroom. Other than that, I don't want to see you on your feet, is that understood?" John demanded.

"But Dad…"

"I gave you an order!"

"Yes, sir." Dean said reluctantly, and then slumped down, so that he was laying on the bed with his feet touching the floor. "But I still want to help." He added a moment later. John stared at him for a long moment.

"Alright." He said eventually. "I want you to write down everything you can remember. And I mean _everything_ – from the moment you picked up on this hunt onwards. Every little detail." John said, getting up and walking over to get a pen and a pad of paper. Dean raised a brow.

"Everything?" he asked with a smirk. John gave him a serious look.

"Even which pickup lines you used and how many freckles she had." He said. Dean grimaced.

"Now that's just sick."

"For all you know she might not have been a woman." John noted. Dean raised his brow again, smirking. It took John a moment to catch on. "Or, for heaven's sake, grow up!" Dean's smirk widened. He took the pen and paper from his father.

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem, seeing as I don't fool around before the job's done, and I didn't get the job done, so this thing's gonna be strictly…" he started, and then his gaze drifted away as he put the pen in his mouth and smirked. "Okay, viewers' discretion advised…"

* * *

Sam returned from school to find Dean asleep. He slipped on a pen and nearly broke his neck. Cursing softly, Sam tossed his book bag to the floor near his bed and went to check up on Dean. His brother looked better, Sam noticed. He had some more color in his cheeks and he wasn't sleeping in a fetus position, which was good. Sam smiled when he noticed a crumpled pad of paper sticking out from under Dean's side. Sam hesitated a moment before trying to get the pad from under his brother. Dean didn't seem to notice all too much, and merely turned on his side and slept on. Sam bit his thumbnail. A stunt like that would get a knife to his throat if Dean was feeling well. Dean was usually a light sleeper. 

Sam picked up the pen from the floor and looked at the crumpled paper, his brow creasing. He left the bedroom, going over to the kitchen, where his father sat with all his notes.

"Smells good in here." Sam noted, sniffing the air.

"Lunch." John said, not lifting his eyes from his work, "I can reheat it for you." he said without looking up.

"I can do it." Sam said, going over to the oven. He raised his brow, turning his head to his father. "You made this?" he asked skeptically. At the tone of his voice, John raised his eyes, glaring at Sam, and then returned his look to his work.

"I _can_ cook, you know." He muttered.

"Yeah," Sam shrugged. "You make really good toast. And cereal. And sometimes even bacon and eggs…" Sam trailed off with a smirk at John's angry glare.

"How was school?" John asked. Sam shrugged, heating up the food.

"School was school." he said, tasting the food. It tasted good, even cold. A Dean trademark. John just nodded lightly, not looking up, and continued his work. Sam took out a plate and a fork, and piled some food onto his plate. "You want some of this?" he asked, but got no answer. Shrugging, Sam found himself a small piece of the table that wasn't covered in papers and books and sat down to eat. "How's Dean?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"Bored." John said, "I'm sure he's glad you're home." Sam stared at his father for a moment.

"He's asleep." He noted. John did look up then.

"Oh," he said, "good." Sam pushed the pad of paper he found in Dean's bed over to his father.

"I'm guessing he made this for you," Sam noted. John looked at his youngest for a moment, before reaching for the paper and studying it carefully.

"Could he possibly write any smaller?" John muttered, "Ants need glasses for this!" he complained as he strained his eyes, trying to read the small, scrambled letters.

Sam finished his lunch quickly, leaving his father to his work and going back to the room he shared with his older brother. He made sure the salt lines were undisturbed before sitting down on his bed, back against the headboard, and taking out his English notebook and textbook, starting on his homework. He sure did have plenty of that. Sam opened the textbook, leafing through it until he reached the right page and started reading, glancing at his sleeping brother every now and then.

A little over an hour later, Sam tossed his English notebook aside after having analyzed the story he'd read to the best of his abilities – which meant a five pages assay. He worked out the kinks in his neck and reached for his school bag again, hesitating between Math and Science. Dean usually helped him with Science, and looked over his Math work to make sure it was mostly correct. A little surprising considering the amount of attention Dean used to give his own homework.

Sam glanced at his brother, studying his profile for a long moment before his mind registered what his eyes were seeing. Dean's breaths were quick and shallow, his face twisted in discomfort. Sam hesitated. It could be just a nightmare. He decided not to take the risk. Sliding off his own bed, he cursed at the sudden cramp in his leg but went over to Dean's bed anyway. Sitting next to his older brother, Sam reached a hand to touch Dean's shoulder. A few seconds later, Dean seemed to respond to the touch, his face relaxing in sleep, his breathing deepening. Sam smiled and got up, back to his own bed, back to his homework.

He took out his algebra book and started working on his assignment, biting the top of his pencil whenever he got stuck. He glanced over at Dean and frowned when he noticed Dean's brow was contorted in pain. Dean was shaking his head slightly, soft moans escaping his lips.

Putting his notebook aside, Sam went over to Dean's bed again, touching his brother's shoulder again, but this time it didn't work. Dean winced, gasping, his eyes snapping open.

"Hey, Dean, it's okay, it's me." Sam said softly. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and Sam frowned. "Dean?" Dean's hand twisted in his sheets, his other hand pressing on his chest. "Dean, what is it? What's wrong?" Sam asked, urgency in his voice. Dean didn't answer him, trying his best to stifle the whimpers that escaped his lips. "Dean? What is it? Talk to me!" Sam implored, his heart racing. "Does it hurt? You want me to get you your meds?" he asked. The color was quickly disappearing from Dean's face. "Dean, come on, you're scaring me." Sam said softly.

"Sammy," Dean whispered in a strangled voice, curling in on himself, burrowing deeper into his pillow. Sam nearly choked over the lump of tears in his throat. _Not again_, was all he could think of. _Not again_.

"Dean, you hang in there, okay? Hang in there, we're going to get hel…" and then he froze, his eyes going wide. Crimson was blossoming on Dean's shirt. A red stain on his chest, starting as a little dot and growing steadily. "DAD!" Sam screamed in horror.

* * *

John got in the room a couple of seconds after Sam cried for him the second time, a shotgun at hand. He gave the room a quick once over, making sure it was safe, before looking at his youngest and, seeing the panic in his eyes, at his oldest. 

"Sam?" John asked, putting the gun down and hurrying over to his son's bed.

"I don't know what happened." Sam said, looking from his father to his brother. "He was having a bad dream, and I sat with him and he was fine, and then… I don't know, he started gasping and… Dad, he's bleeding!" Sam said frantically.

John was quick to give Dean a once-over, easily spotting the blood on his son's shirt. Dean was still breathing hard, still wincing in pain, one hand pressing against his chest while the other fisting his shirt. John tried to gently pull his son's hands away so he could get a better look, but Dean refused him.

"Come on, Dean, I need to see." John said, but if Dean even heard him, he ignored it. Glancing up at his youngest, John pried Dean's hands loose, holding them firmly as Dean struggled in pain. "Sam, take his shirt off." He ordered. Sam tried, but Dean didn't cooperate, making it impossible to pull his shirt up high enough. "Just get a goddamn pair of scissors and cut the damn thing!" John snapped. Sam rushed over to the kitchen to get the scissors and quickly cut the fabric of his brother's shirt.

The bandage over the symbol on Dean's chest was soaked in his blood. Both John and Sam grimaced at the sight. Dean whimpered, trying to curl in on himself, but John held him firmly.

"Easy, Dean. It's okay, I've got you." John said softly, making Sam raise a brow at his tone. It's been a very long time since Sam's heard his father speak in such a soft tone, and it freaked him out. John spared him a quick glance. "Sammy, I need you to hold him so I can check that." He said authoritatively. Sam hesitated for merely a second before taking his father's place, holding his struggling brother's hands, trying to calm him down enough to allow his father to fix this. To make it all better. He whispered reassuring words to his brother, his eyes on Dean's chest. And then he sucked in his breath, his eyes widening.

"Dad,"

"I see it." John said somberly, getting to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Sam demanded fearfully.

"To get the Holy water." John said.

The bandage was soaked in blood. But that wasn't the scary part. The scary part was that it barely covered the symbol, which was still oozing blood. The bandage was still in the same place. It _used_ to cover the symbol on Dean's chest completely. And that meant…

"Dad!" Sam's heart was racing a mile a minute. He did his best not to succumb to his panic. He needed to stay cool right now. Dad needed him to stay cool. Dean needed him.

"Alright, Sammy, I need you to hold him, okay?" John said once he got back in the room with the largest bottle of Holy water he could find. Sam's eyes watered, but he nodded, sitting on the bed next to his brother, holding onto Dean's wrists.

"It's going to be okay, Dean." he whispered. Dean's eyes were closed, he was still breathing hard, but he seemed to have relaxed a little. And then the symbol on his chest started moving again. Sam froze, watching in horror as it inched its way closer to Dean's heart, carving his flesh as it did, leaving a trail of blood. Dean bucked, letting out a strangled cry.

"Sam, hold him!" John ordered, bringing some gauze over. "You ready?" he asked. Sam clenched his jaw, nodding lightly. "Dean?" John asked, but Dean didn't answer. Swallowing hard, John crouched down by his son's side and tipped the bottle a little, letting a small, steady trickle of water pour down onto the symbol on Dean's chest as he started reciting the words to the ritual.

The effect was instantaneous. Dean screamed, flinching, trying to get away as tiny wisps of smoke rose from his chest. Sam strengthened his hold on his brother, looking fearfully at his father.

"Just hold on." John said through gritted teeth, not really sure who he was talking to. He tipped the bottle a little more, allowing for a larger trickle. Dean writhed and squirmed, yelling, crying, asking his Dad to stop. He screamed in pain, tears escaping through his winced-shut eyes, begging for John to stop.

The symbol on Dean's chest started smoldering, contorting, changing, but it neither faded nor disappeared. John gritted his teeth, running a hand on his face and swallowing hard. He needed to get rid of this thing. He _had_ to get rid of it. It was hurting his son. It was something unnatural, and it was hurting his son. John spilled some more water on it, and Dean screamed like he was being gutted alive. For all John knew, maybe he was.

Sam seemed scared out of his mind, but John couldn't do anything about it. Not now. Hell, he was scared out of his mind, too. He didn't know what this thing was, he didn't know why it was there, who put it there, he just knew that it was hurting his son and that he had to get rid of it. The fact that getting rid of it seemed to hurt Dean even more was like a knife cutting at his gut.

John reached out, stroking his son's sweat soaked hair, caressing his tear soaked, pale cheek, whispering words of reassurance to his oldest. Dean was shaking in pain, his eyes glazed, his breathing ragged. He kept asking his Dad to stop, to just stop. John took his hand, whispering promises he didn't know if he could keep, and Dean just kept begging him to stop, tears running freely down his cheeks now.

"Dad?" tears were running unchecked down Sam's face as well. John swallowed hard. He reached for some gauze and started cleaning the blood away gently, softly. Blood was still oozing where the symbol had once been, where the symbol was now. It moved closer to Dean's heart. Dean shivered violently, teeth clattering at the cold. He closed his eyes, his energy tapped out. John kissed his brow and swallowed hard.

"Hold him, Sam." He said. Sam shook his head lightly, lip quivering. At that, Dean started shaking his head, begging for John not to do it, begging for him to let it go, to stop. John looked at Sam, making sure the teen was ready, before he poured some Holy water onto a piece of gauze and ran it over Dean's chest. Dean shuddered, a silent cry freezing on his lips, and passed out, going completely limp.

John stopped, checking for Dean's pulse, just to be sure. The heartbeat was erratic, but it was there. John swallowed his fear and bile and poured Holy water more liberally over the symbol.

"Dad, stop!" Sam said. "Dad, stop it!" he repeated, eyes darting from his father to his unconscious brother. "Stop it, Dad, stop doing that!" he cried.

"Just a little more, Sammy. It's almost over, we just need to get that symbol off…"

"No!" Sam cried, "Stop it! Right now!" he demanded. "You're killing him! Dad, you're killing him, stop it!" Sam screamed. John's hands were shaking. He was fighting his own tears, refusing to give up, refusing to surrender. _Just a little more, he was hurting this thing, he knew he was, just a little more and it would go away_. "Dad, I mean it! Stop!" Sam screamed, reaching over and forcing his father's hand away from his brother, forcing him to let go of the bottle. Sam's heart was pounding in his chest. Dean was barely breathing. He looked almost as bad as he did a month ago, when they first saw him at that hospital. Sam glowered at his father.

John scrubbed his face with a shaky hand again. An entire bottle. He'd used an entire bottle, reciting all the right things – this thing should have gone away. This thing should have let go of his son. But it didn't. With trembling fingers, John searched for Dean's pulse. It was fast. Too fast. "Sammy, go get the first aid kit." He ordered. Sam glared at him, shifting on the bed so that Dean's head was resting on his chest.

"You go!" he said angrily, accusingly, pulling his brother closer to him, holding his hand, trying to comfort him. John stared at his sons, unable to move for a long moment, before reason kicked in. He walked over to the bathroom and retrieved the first aid kit himself.

He stopped just beside Dean's bed, watching as Sam tried to get Dean to wake up. Dean was out cold and non-responsive, and Sam was panicking, crying out to his brother, asking him, telling him to wake up.

The bed creaked as John sat down beside his boys. He used the scissors to get rid of Dean's shirt completely. Blood and water soaked the fabric, and John just tossed it on the floor by the bed. Sam cradled Dean's head against him, whispering soothing words in his ear, patting his arm reassuringly, begging his older brother to just wake up. But Dean remained still.

John worked quickly. He cleaned Dean's wound, gently, carefully redressing it. He tried to ignore the anger he was feeling. _This wasn't defeat_, he had told himself, _it was simply the end of round one_.

Dean was still out by the time his brother and father put a new shirt on him, and now John was starting to get nervous. He slapped Dean's cheeks gently, trying to wake him up. Sam squeezed his hand, talking to him, but it still took another couple of gut wrenching moments before Dean's eyes began to flutter and he began to whimper in pain. Dean's face was contorted in pain and misery and he started to shiver again.

John pulled the covers up, covering both his sons, before getting to his feet and walking back to the bathroom. He put the first aid kit back in place, filling up a glass of water. He took Dean's meds bottle, popped the cap off and took out a few pills. He hesitated a moment. On a normal day, he'd give Dean three, maybe four pills. But the doctor had warned him about Dean's kidneys, saying he had to keep close eye on his dosage because his liver and kidneys might not work as well and there was a chance he'd overdose if not watched carefully. John couldn't take the risk. He returned all but two pills back to the bottle, recapping it. He crushed the pills into a fine powder and mixed it with the water, so it would be easier to swallow. He allowed himself just one moment to take a deep breath – he'd freak out later, now was not the time. Swallowing back bile, John took the glass and got out of the bathroom.

Sam helped prop Dean up a little so he could drink the water. Dean choked on it, but was finally able to drink it all up. He was out cold again in two seconds.

John cleaned up the mess and then brought a chair over, sitting with his sons, watching over them, thinking. This should have worked. He'd done this before, it should have worked. He had no idea why it didn't, and it ate away at him. His son was hurting, and there was nothing he could do. _Yet_. There was nothing he could do _yet_, he corrected himself. The symbol on Dean's chest has changed. The beast has turned into a strange array of symbols, and the words in the outer circle changed, too. He'd have to start researching all over again. Maybe this time, Bobby would know what this thing is.

A few moments later, John got up from his chair and went back to the kitchen. He couldn't help but feeling a little uncomfortable with his sons, he couldn't help but feeling like he was somehow intruding on something private. Something he wasn't a part of. The glances Sam shot his way every now and then as he stroked his brother's short hair proved as much. With a heavy heart, John left his sons and went back to his work.

He sat at the kitchen table where he could still get a view of Dean if he leaned all the way to the left. He wished it didn't have to be like that. He wished he didn't feel like he was intruding on his sons, he wished he didn't feel like his family was slipping through his fingers, like no matter how hard he'd tried, he just screwed things up more. He wished he could talk to his sons, really talk to them, like dads do. He wished he could protect them from all this, that he could hold them and tell them there was nothing out there in the dark. He wished they could go back and be his little boys again, so he could see, _really see_ them grow up, and this time, pay attention.

Sam's changed so much lately. He used to want to spend all his time with his Daddy, crying whenever John had left on a hunt. These days, he seemed relieved if John announced he was leaving the boys and going on a long hunt. It hurt, it really did. John had no idea how to fix it. He didn't know if he _could_ fix it anymore, if it wasn't too late already.

John got up and made some coffee. He couldn't think about these things. He couldn't allow himself to go soft. Going soft meant not being prepared. It meant putting his sons in danger, and he would never have that. This thing, this rift that started between he and Sam, there was nothing he could do about it right now. He had to concentrate on what he _could_ do something about, think of the son he _can_ help right now.

He drew the symbol from Dean's chest on a piece of paper. He didn't remember it all that well, he needed a better look if he were to get all the symbols right, but now wasn't the time. He didn't want to interfere with his sons more than he already has. Instead, he wrote down what he thought those symbols were, and where exactly they were in comparison to the older symbols. John gave his sons a long look from the kitchen before he put on his coat, stuffed his journal in his pocket, and went out to fax it over to Bobby.

TBC

A/N: I just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas! And if you were wondering, reviews are the best Christmas gift... ;)


	10. Unearthing the Truth I

**Disclaimer**: I own them in my dreams. Does that count?

A/N: First of all, I wish you all a belated happy new year.

The site's been acting up again and the alerts... well, you know. I did try to reply to each and every one of you who reviewed. If I didn't, it's certainly not because I don't appreciate it. I'll even use this chance to thank all those anonymous reviewers - I wish I could reply to you all individually, but I thank you just the same.

I really didn't plan on updating while the alerts are down, but it has been a while, and I did promise a weekly update, so _please_ review so I'd know I'd made the right choice by not waiting. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Warning: Some language. John is angry, and has a potty mouth…

Chapter Ten – Unearthing the Truth (Part One)

John returned about an hour later, carrying a bag of takeout. He put it on the kitchen table and went over to the boys' room. It looked like both boys were asleep, but as John stepped closer, Sam stirred, opening his eyes.

"Hey buddy. I got us some food, if you're hungry." John said. Sam blinked a couple of times, pushing himself up against the headboard as his stomach growled. John took a seat by the bed, touching his hand to his older son's brow to check for fever, and then brushed his fingers through his son's blonde hair, thumbing his brow gently.

"Dad, what the hell's going on?" Sam demanded in a hushed voice. John spared him a look.

"That's what I'm trying to find out." He said. "Go on, go eat. I'll stay with him." Sam's stomach growled again.

"You won't hurt him, right?" he asked. John glared at him. He couldn't believe Sam would actually ask him that. Sam hesitated a moment longer before untangling his long limbs from his brother and the sheets. He worked the kinks out of his neck and shoulders as he headed for the kitchen. John sat there for another moment, just looking at his oldest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just looked at his sons while they slept.

Dean's tanned complexion was pale now, dark circles reforming around his eyes. His hair didn't look as blonde when it was cut this short. Dean didn't use to cut it this short, he only started doing so after he graduated from high school. He used to like wearing it longer. Shorter hair made him look older, John thought, still stroking Dean's brow gently.

Dean's brow creased, his eyes fluttering, and John withdrew his hand. He didn't want Dean to wake up just yet. He hoped he could do this without waking his son.

Glimpsing back to make sure Sam was still in the kitchen, John lowered Dean's covers, unbuttoning his button-up shirt to reveal the fresh bandage. John glanced at Dean, and then pulled the comforter back up while going to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. Once he did, he prodded at the bandage again, and then slowly removed it.

He nodded to himself, satisfied that there was nearly no blood on it. John hesitated for a second, thinking whether or not to put some more antiseptic cream on the symbol, but decided against it. He'll do that later, after Dean had had time to gather his strength. For now, he had something else to do. Leaning back in his seat, John took out his journal, opening it on the first empty page.

He covered Dean up to his chest, noticing Dean was shivering again, and left only the symbol on his chest visible. Taking out a pen, John started drawing the symbol as accurately as he could in his journal.

Sam came back not long after that. He seemed less than pleased, but seeing as his father didn't seem to be causing Dean any more discomfort, he shrugged and sat down on his bed, trying to finish his homework. It seemed so pointless now, so wrong, but his brother was asleep, and there was nothing else Sam could do for him. He couldn't concentrate though, his mind kept wandering back to his brother, and Sam shoved his books back in his schoolbag, walking back to Dean's bed and squeezing back under the covers with his older brother. His brow furrowed as he noticed the symbol on Dean's chest.

"Wasn't that thing red before?" Sam asked. John looked up from his journal for a second.

"Mmm hmm." He said, and kept sketching.

"But it's black now." Sam noted. John looked up at him again and Sam shrugged. "What do you think it means?"

"Don't know," John admitted. "But I'm hoping Bobby will. He said this looks familiar, he wanted a more accurate picture." John said, finishing his sketch. He redressed the wound quickly, noting that the long gashes left as the thing moved already closed and seemed to have healed. It seemed strange. He made a mental note to add that to his notes before he sent Bobby the papers again. "You staying here with him?" John asked his youngest. Sam nodded. "Call me if there's any change." John ordered and Sam nodded again.

John brought Sam's pillow and blanket from his own bed to Dean's, covering both his sons up, tucking them in, making them more comfortable.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do I still have to go to school tomorrow?" Sam asked in a small voice. John sighed, crouching near his youngest.

"Yes, you do, Sammy." he said.

"I don't want to." Sam protested.

"I know," John stroked his younger boy's head, "but I need your help on this one, kiddo. I can't do it all on my own." He said seriously, "I need you to keep people away, to make them think everything's normal, so that they'd leave us alone and don't start snooping around. Can you do that, Sammy?" John asked quietly.

"Yes, sir." John smiled at his youngest, and then got up and went out to fax Bobby the papers again.

* * *

John cursed as the boiling water from the coffee pot spilled on his hand. Shaking his hand to try to cool it off, he made his way to the ringing phone. Sam was at school, and the last he checked, Dean was still asleep. It was a good thing that the kid was resting, but he hadn't eaten the day before, and John figured if Dean didn't wake up soon, he'd wake him up to eat something. 

Picking up the phone, John walked over to the boys' room to take another look at his eldest. "Winchester." He said in a hushed voice, making sure Dean was still sleeping and glancing at the clock on the wall. He'll give Dean another half hour and then wake him up.

"John, it's me."

"Hey Bobby. Got news for me?" John asked.

"Matter of fact, I do. I knew I recognized it. Still took me half the night to find the right book. It's pretty dark stuff, Johnny, powerful." Bobby said.

"That much I already figured out. What is it?" John asked impatiently, walking back to the kitchen to get his coffee.

"It's a Leech." Bobby said, and then added; "It's some sort of ancient rune. Really ancient. It drains the life and energy of its victim. From what I've read it's pretty damn painful, too." Bobby finished and John swallowed hard, rubbing his brow. He took a deep breath.

"How would someone get…" he started, not sure how to continue.

"The life sucked out of him?" Bobby asked.

"And why?" John finished.

"Well, says here, it's pretty dark stuff. Demonic dark. It's used by lower level demons." Bobby said. John leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee.

"So I'm dealing with a demon?" he asked, cursing inwardly, and started pacing.

"Or a really strong, pissed off witch." Bobby read from his book. "As for why," he exhaled loudly, "Insurance." He said. John frowned.

"Insurance?"

"Says here, the demon, or witch or whatever, they give the victim a job to do, a task. Usually something pretty nasty, something they'll never do. Something no one in their right mind would do. The Leech is the insurance policy; they do what they were told, or they die." John blanched.

"How do you get rid of it?" he asked through gritted teeth, leaning against the living-room wall for support, the hand holding his coffee cup shaking slightly.

"Well, you don't. You can't get rid of it. You either complete the task or die." Bobby said. John nodded slightly, closing his eyes, feeling his stomach tightening.

"And if you get the job done, it goes away?" he asked. There was a slight pause as Bobby read through his book before he answered.

"Yep. Looks like." John walked over as far as the cord allowed, peering over to look at his sleeping son again.

"What if the victim wasn't given a task?" John asked, "What if they don't remember?" Bobby considered it for a moment.

"Well, I wouldn't know why someone would bother doing it without a task in mind. Then again, demons don't really need a reason to torture someone. But if the victim say they don't remember… Well, chances are they're lying to ya. Want you to find another way out of whatever crap they got themselves into." Bobby said, "I tell you one thing, Winchester; if I were you, I'd make sure they understood they're going to die a very painful death if they don't kick-start their brain and remember quickly." Bobby added. There was a long pause before Bobby went on. "There's... another thing." He said hesitantly. "This thing, it's time sensitive, John." John hit the back of his head against the wall in frustration, putting his drink away.

"What does that mean?" he asked, doing his best to control his voice as he paced the living room.

"Means there's a time stamp." Bobby said, "Victim's given a time frame. After that… well, offer expires. And the victim along with it." John took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Thanks, Bobby." He said, and hung up the phone.

John took a deep breath, and then another. He tried to wrap his mind around what Bobby had told him. He tried to think about it calmly and rationally. "Sonofabitch!" well, I said _tried_…

A demon or a witch. Dean said there were men there, men he thought were possessed, possibly by demons. And there was this woman he kept talking about, a woman he was afraid of. Could be a witch. "Damn it!"

This thing, this Leech, it had a deadline, and it must be getting close. That must have been the reason the symbol moved, changed. To remind them that time was running out. Whatever that task may be, Dean had to complete it or die. "Damnit, _damnit_!" but Dean didn't say anything about a freaking task. He didn't say anything about a timeframe. He just said he didn't remember anything.

_And that the woman was going to go after Sammy once he…_

"sonofafreakin_bitch_!" and then John punched the wall so hard it made the clock fall down with a loud bang and break.

* * *

Dean woke up with a start to the sound of his father yelling and something breaking. Instinct took over. He never stopped to think of his own injuries as he flung his legs off the bed and got up. He fought a sudden vertigo, swaying on his feet. 

"Dad?" his heart pounded in his chest. Something was wrong. His father was yelling and then something smashed. Dean had to help him. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and then rushed towards the door, towards his father.

* * *

"Dad?" John heard his son's small, uncertain voice. He glared in the direction of the boys' room, anger building inside him, gathering force like an avalanche. He clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes. 

Dean lied to him. It was the only logical conclusion.

Dean. Lied.

And it made John's blood boil. How could he possibly be expected to help his son if he didn't know all the facts?

He had asked Dean, time and time again, what had happened. Dean kept saying he didn't remember. He kept 'remembering' little things, little details. But a task assigned to him by a demon witch? _That_ part he chose to leave out? Unacceptable.

John clenched and unclenched his fists, anger turning into seethe. He needed a word with his son.

Dean's gut-wrenching scream and the thud that followed it made John freeze, made his eyes widen, his heart quicken its beat and his knees buckle.

"Dean," John rushed to his sons' room, mouth dry, expecting… Not quite that. Or maybe exactly that.

Dean was on his knees by the ring of salt, doubled over until his head practically touched the floor. He was whimpering, face twisted in pain. He was gasping, eyes shut tight, teeth gritted in a feeble attempt to muffle his cries of pain. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth.

"Dean?" John fell to his knees by his firstborn's side. Dean wasn't breathing. He was holding his breath. It must be bad, John knew, the pain had to be beyond intolerable to get this response out of Dean. John reached for Dean, lifting his head to make Dean look at him. "Dean, breathe. You have to keep breathing." John instructed. Tears escaped the sides of Dean's tightly closed eyes. He tried to listen, tried to draw a quick breath. It came out as a whimper. John gave him a quick once-over. No blood.

"Dean, what is it? What's wrong?" John asked, but Dean shook his head, trying to curl into a ball again. John's eyes darted around the room, searching for a hidden threat he might have missed. He pulled his son up on his knees again, making sure Dean was breathing. John was a little taken aback, not sure what was causing this, or how to make it stop, how to help his boy.

"Come on, let's get you to bed, then I'll get you something for the…" John started as he began to rise to his feet, pulling his oldest up with him.

"NO!" Dean cried and John stopped short. Dean's eyes were open now, wide open in terror. "No, wait, wait, wait!" he said quickly, sounding terrified. John frowned.

"Dean?"

"I can't…" Dean gasped, tears escaping his eyes, "I can't… breathe… don't…" he shook his head, curling up again, his head in John's lap this time, his hands fisting his father's shirt. For a second, the sight was just too overwhelming for John. He wrapped his arms around his shaking boy, frown deepening, fear and worry taking hold.

"Dad, I can't…" Dean cried – literally _cried_. "It's gonna kill me, Dad, please…" Dean gasped, his skin so pale it could give milk a run for its money.

"Dean, look at me," John said, trying to keep his voice steady as he lifted Dean's face to look in his son's eyes. "You have to breathe. Take deep breaths, son. Just keep breathing, alright?" Dean shook his head, dropping it again.

"Can't," Dean panted, "God, I can't… breathe…" he burrowed deeper into John's lap, into his arms. A little boy searching for his father's comfort and protection. A little boy looking for his father to make it alright. John felt so scared and helpless he wished something would just burst in the room so he could shoot it. "Dad, please, just make it stop!" Dean cried, begged. His body was covered in sweat and he was shaking.

Not knowing what else to do, John pulled his son closer. If nothing else, he could at least offer some solace, at least try to make sure Dean was breathing. He rested his chin on top of his son's head, heart racing, eyes darting around looking for something, anything he could do to ease his child's suffering.

And then his eyes fell on the ring of salt.

Bobby's words resonated in his mind. _A demon or a witch. An ancient rune leaching energy and life force…_ _The way Dean reacted to the Holy water last night_… _Now it made sense_. The Holy water, the salt – they were hurting the Leech, weakening it, and in turn, it leached Dean's strength, his energy, his life force – to recover, to regain its own strength. The Holy water, the salt; they were killing his son!

John's eyes widened as the understanding struck him. He sucked in his breath, his heart racing. Without wasting another second, John reached out and broke the circle of salt around Dean's bed.

Dean let out another cry, a whimper, and then slumped down. For a few moments he just curled there on the floor; gasping, crying, completely exhausted. John knew he was doing better when Dean started cursing breathlessly. He reached out tentatively and touched his son.

"Dean?" Dean lifted his head just slightly, still looking like hell warmed over.

"I can't take it anymore, Dad. I can't…" he shook his head, "It's too much… Make it stop, please…" Dean breathed, as John pulled him into his arms again.

"It didn't stop?" John asked worriedly, "It's still that bad?" Dean just rested his head against his father's chest, too exhausted to answer.

His chest hurt; the same type of pressure, only a thousand times heavier. But it didn't end there. It spread; like tiny needles and liquid fire spread all throughout his body. There was a pressure in his head, too. It felt like someone was crushing his head from both sides, so hard it was amazing his eyes didn't pop out of their sockets. But none of it came close to the pressure in his heart – a vice really – so strong Dean felt like his heart was about to burst inside his chest.

The pressure eased once his father broke the protection circle, but it only elicited another kind of pain, one Dean couldn't even name. He fisted his hands in his father's shirt, whimpering.

"Dad, just make it stop, please…" he breathed. _God, why couldn't he just pass out already? Just pass out and not feel this pain…_

"I'm trying to, son." John whispered into his hair, "I'm trying." He held Dean gently in his arms, like he was afraid Dean was going to break if he held onto him too tightly. It tore his heart to shreds seeing such raw pain in Dean's face, to see his strong, proud son reduced to tears and gasps and begging.

"Come on," John murmured, getting to his feet and pulling Dean up with him. Dean was clinging to him, shaking so hard he was practically dead weight. John helped him the few feet over to the bed, lowering him down gently.

Dean didn't protest. He allowed his father to tuck him in, to thumb the tears away from his cheeks. He didn't have the energy to do anything on his own – even breathing was something he had to concentrate on.

Reluctantly, John left Dean's side, going over to the bathroom to crush some more painkillers and mix them in a glass of water. Dean's eyes widened in horror as John brought the water back. He started shaking his head, trying to push himself up, to push himself away from the offending glass; small, heartbreaking whimpers escaping his lips.

"It's okay, Dean. It's just water, I promise." John said, sitting on the bed next to Dean. "I crushed you some pills. Drink up, it'll help." John added, bringing the glass to Dean's lips. Dean shook his head, eyes wide with fear. "It's just tap water, Dean. Drink it." John ordered. "It's not Holy water, I promise." He sighed a moment later, when Dean still didn't seem convinced. "Come on, you haven't had anything to drink in a long time, you need this." John said, bringing the glass closer to Dean's lips, trying to coax him to drink. Dean hesitated, looking from his father to the offending glass and back, and finally gave a slight nod. John brought the glass closer, helping Dean to a little sip, but Dean choked on the water, spitting them out, coughing. John quickly patted his back, sitting him up higher. Dean was panting, he couldn't keep himself up without help anymore.

"Dad, please…" Dean panted, "I can't… take it anymore," he wheezed, "I'm so tired, Dad, I just want to sleep. Please, Dad, make it stop. Just let me sleep…" Dean begged.

John laid him back down, unable to look at the raw fear and pain in his son's face. Dean was beyond exhausted, his energy was tapped out. He lay there, eyes closed, tears still falling, face contorted in pain. John couldn't stand it anymore. He put the glass aside and quickly walked over to his room to get the emergency kit. He pulled out a syringe and quickly made it back to his son's side.

"It's okay, Dean." he murmured as he raised Dean's sleeve, "I'm going to make it okay, I promise." He whispered, blinking the tears away as he injected his son with morphine. "Try to sleep, kiddo. I'm right here." He promised, putting the empty syringe away. The past twenty four hours had been hell for Dean. Worse than that. The Leech attacked him twice, draining him completely. This was dangerous, John knew. Dean really _couldn't_ take any more of it, his body won't survive it again. He hadn't eaten the day before, had barely drank anything. He needed food and water to get his strength back.

John lay on Dean's bed, resting against the headboard and pulling his firstborn to him, waiting for the morphine to take affect, for Dean to fall asleep. Dean needed the rest. He needed food. He needed to get his energy back. John promised himself that if Dean didn't get better soon, _very_ soon, he wasn't going to wait. He'll bring his son back to the hospital.

TBC

The second part of this chapter is almost done. You know the drill, reviews help for quicker updates...


	11. Unearthing the Truth II

A/N: Supernatural is back! But I must admit, 'Hunted' was a bit of a letdown for me. _That_'s the big secret? Really? I was a little annoyed at first. At least until I realized it totally works as far as this story is concerned... insert evil grin here...

The site seems to be acting up again, so I'm taking a leap of faith and posting it today anyway. Please review.

Chapter Eleven – Unearthing the Truth (Part Two)

John sat in his son's bed, back resting against the headboard, his mind racing. Dean was out cold. The last time John had checked, his heart was beating far too fast. This couldn't go on. Dean may be strong, but no one was invincible. Sooner or later, the Leech will drain him completely, killing him.

There were so many thoughts and emotions running through John's head. On the one hand, there was fear; terror really. The fear of losing his son. The pain of having to watch his baby boy go through this torture and knowing it was all his fault. _He_ was the one who chose this life. _He _was the one who set his son on this path. _He_ was the one that allowed Dean go on his own. Well, _that's_ never going to happen again.

And then there was anger. What the hell was Dean thinking, hiding things from him? Hiding this? Why the hell didn't he just come out and say 'Dad, I'm in trouble'? Why didn't he just say someone, some_thing,_ told him he had to do something he didn't want to do, and threatened to kill him if he didn't do it? Dean should have said something sooner! He could have figured it all out sooner, gone out after this thing and make it take that thing off his son's chest. He could have called Bobby and Jim and Caleb and Rick and everyone else, and get them to hunt this thing. Dean shouldn't have lied, shouldn't have kept it a secret.

John let out a breath, checking Dean's pulse again. It was still fast, but at least Dean seemed to be breathing more easily now. John scratched his head and got off the bed. He cleaned all the salt away, even the ring surrounding Sammy's bed, and took the protection symbols off– not wanting to take any more chances. He then went to the kitchen and started making soup; wishing for the first time he knew how to make one from scratch instead of from a can. But it would have to do. Dean had to eat something, he had to get his strength back.

John woke Dean up half an hour later, helping him to drink some water. The affects of the sedative were still in his son's system, and Dean was practically putty, barely able to hold himself up long enough to swallow. John propped him up using all the pillows he could find, making him take tiny sips until he'd finished the entire glass of water. He tried to coax him to eat the soup, but Dean was too out of it by then. John was able to feed him a few spoonfuls before deciding that resting was probably a good idea. He removed the pillows, easing his son back down, and then took a sit by his side and kept watch.

It was at least four hours later when Dean started to stir, eyes flattering, trying to decide whether the waking world would be as kind as his drug-induced sleep. At the sound of Dean's tossing and turning, John lifted his eyes from the notes he'd been reading – the notes Dean supplied him with. It was the fifth time he's gone through them today, and even knowing what he knew now, the gaps were still too big.

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, blinking a few times. "Dad?" John got up from his seat, sitting by his son's side.

"I'm right here, kiddo." He said, "How are you feeling?"

"Don't want back in the hospital." Dean murmured, closing his eyes again.

"You think you can drink some more?" John asked. Dean hesitated.

"Don't know." He said. "I'm so tired."

"I know," John said, reaching for a glass of water and coaxing his son to a few small sips. Dean coughed, turning his head away, and closed his eyes. John put the glass away, satisfied that Dean had actually drank something. "How are you feeling?" John asked, touching his hand to Dean's forehead.

"Tired." Dean said, "More than that. Like… I don't know, drained." He admitted, "Like… someone sucked all the energy out of me." John straightened at that, raising a brow. He wondered how much Dean did know, how much he was keeping from him and how much was just guessing and experience.

"I know, kiddo." John said. "Your chest still hurts?" he asked. Dean shook his head lightly.

"Nah. Not really. Just some pressure, but it doesn't hurt." He said. John nodded, feeling some of the weight leaving his shoulders.

"Good. That's good." He said, exhaling. "So now I can yell at you." Dean forced his eyes open, looking questioningly at his father. "Oh, I am going to yell." John said, the anger bubbling up to the surface now that the gnawing worry was subsiding. "I'm really angry with you, Dean. And disappointed." John clipped. Dean looked so small and exhausted that, for a moment, the worry overrode the anger. But just for a moment.

"Dad?"

"You lied to me, Dean." John snapped, raising his voice just a little. Dean blinked owlishly at him. "What the hell were you thinking?" he wasn't yelling just yet. He wasn't talking in a normal tone of voice, either. Dean frowned, looking a little uncertain.

"I heard you yell and then something breaking, I just wanted to check it out, I didn't know…" Dean started explaining, his voice small and uncertain.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John demanded, "You knew I'd figure it out eventually, _why didn't you tell me?_" John _was_ yelling now. Dean flinched, shaking his head slightly, and swallowed.

"Do we have to do this now?" he asked. John narrowed his eyes.

"You'd better believe it." He snapped impatiently. Dean squirmed in bed, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I _know_ about the Leech. I know about the task, Dean, I _know!_" John growled out with frustration that sounded a lot like rage. Dean swallowed again, turning an even paler shade of white.

"Oh." He said. John blinked, trying his best to control his temper.

"Oh? That all you've got to say for yourself?" he demanded incredulously.

"Well, good. I guess." Dean drawled. John stared at him, shocked.

"_Good?_"

"Yeah." Dean shrugged. "You know what it is, you can get rid of it, right? You know how to get rid of it?" he asked, sounding suspiciously like a scared eight year old. "I mean, you can, right?" John scrubbed his face, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

"Was it the woman?" John asked, "She a witch?" Dean frowned a little, his mind working a little slower than usual, but then nodded lightly.

"Maybe. I think so." He admitted, and John nodded back.

"What'd she want you to do?" John asked. Dean's frown deepened and he shifted in bed.

"I don't remember." He said. "I don't remember much from the hunt, I already told you that."

"Yes, and you lied!" John snapped. Dean swallowed, licking his chapped lips. It was getting too hard to keep his eyes open, and so he let them close, feeling consciousness slowly slipping away. His father must have noticed this, because the next moment there was a glass of water held to his lips, coaxing him to take another sip. Dean's vision was somewhat blurred, the world started swimming again and dark spots danced before his eyes like weird black snowflakes. He closed his eyes, letting out a small groan.

"Dean, you need to tell me the truth." John insisted and Dean grunted. He was too tired to for this. His father found his lack of answers exasperating. "This thing is time limited, Dean! You should have told me right away!" he clipped. Dean felt himself slipping away, and figured it might not be too bad, considering, but he knew his father will find a way to get him to talk, and that it probably won't be very gentle. He sighed, opening his heavy-lidded eyes half mast and looking at his old man.

"I didn't remember right away." He admitted, and closed his eyes again. He was beyond exhausted. He heard the bed creak as his father got up, he heard footsteps as his father left, and then came back to the room, and then a glass was pressed to his lips again. Dean took a hesitant sip, not sure he could handle it. He coughed, choking, and pushed the glass away, making a disgusted noise.

"What the hell?"

"Sugar." John said. "Drink it, Dean. You need it." He said in a tone of voice that said he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Dean shook his head lightly, but managed another couple of sips, grimacing at the taste.

"And when you did remember?" John pushed, unwilling to let this one go. Dean sighed dramatically. "When the hell were you going to tell me, Dean? Huh?" John demanded, unrelenting. Dean pulled the covers up to his neck, but didn't say anything. "Answer the question!" John demanded, raising his voice. Dean bit his lower lip, giving his father a long look.

"Never." Dean murmured. John's eyes widened.

"_What?_" he hissed, "What the hell does that mean?" he cried incredulously. Dean closed his eyes. He had said all he was going to say, admitted all he was going to admit. "Dean!" John yelled when his son failed to answer, but Dean remained silent. "The woman; was she a witch or was she possessed? What did this to you?" John wasn't ready to let go. Dean licked his lips.

"Both, I think. I don't know for sure." He said.

"What did she want?" John demanded. "What did she ask you to do?" he yelled. "I know she told you to do something! What. Did. She. Want?" Dean actually flinched at John's voice, but still didn't answer. His head started to hurt and there was pressure building in his stomach. He put his arm over his face, feeling his heart beating harder, faster. He didn't have the strength for this. "Answer the freaking question, Dean! That's an order!" John yelled, looming over his son. Dean peered at him from under his arm. He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. He didn't have the energy to keep secrets anymore.

"Sammy," he whispered. John blinked, stunned.

"What?" he asked, unable to suppress the little tremor in his voice.

"She wanted me to bring Sammy to her." Dean repeated, a little stronger this time, removing the arm from his face and looking defiantly at his father. "And I'm not going to. It's not an option!" he said vehemently. John was shocked into silence for a long moment and Dean put his arm over his eyes again.

John's face softened. He sat back by his son's side, running a hand through his dark hair. "Dean, if you don't do what she told you to do, the Leech… it will…" the older Winchester shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Dean took a deep breath and looked at his father with watery eyes. He had to blink a few times to get his vision to focus, fighting the darkness away.

"I know." Dean said softly. There was no ounce of regret in his voice. No surprise, no hesitation. "I mean, she didn't actually _say_ anything, but I don't really think she needed to. I…" he licked his lips again, swallowing, and cleared his throat. "I can feel it." He said.

John looked away. He had to look away. He couldn't stand to just stand there and look at his firstborn as he admitted he knew he was going to die. Worse, as he admitted he wasn't going to do anything to stop it. John clenched his fist, his jaw working hard. When he next looked at his son, his gaze was steel.

"How do I find her?" he asked in a husky voice. Dean's eyes snapped open. He looked intently at his father, shaking his head slightly.

"Dad, no." he whispered.

"I asked you a question." John said in an uncompromising tone. Dean shook his head again.

"No." he said, "If she catches you…" he swallowed. "Sam's gonna need someone to look after him, someone to take care of him. You can't go." Dean said. The older hunter just kept staring at him expectantly. "Dad, you can't!" Dean said, almost pleadingly.

"You don't worry about me, just tell me where she is, I'll take care of it." John said firmly. Bobby said there was only one way to get the Leech off. Well, screw that. John's gonna find that witch and get her to get the Leech off his son. No matter what it took. He will protect his boys, no matter the price.

The younger hunter shook his head again, feeling his heart racing and his body screaming for reprieve, for rest.

"Dean, damn it, time's important here, don't you understand? You don't have any to spare, you hear me? Tell me where she is, it's an order!" John insisted.

"I can't!"

"Damn it, Dean, you tell me where she is! I order you to tell me where she is!"

"No, sir!" Dean cried, breathing hard, and then fell back against the pillow. He shook his head again. "I can't." he murmured. John narrowed his eyes. Seeing his son so weak and drained only strengthened his resolve.

"You can, and you will, you hear me?" John demanded. "That's a goddamn order! Tell me!" he yelled.

"Tell you what?" John sucked in his breath, startled, as his youngest came in the room. Sam tossed his schoolbag to the floor, his look going from his father to his brother and back. "Tell you what?" he asked again. There was a moment of tense silence before Dean smirked at his little brother.

"What I put in my lasagna." He said, "Sorry, Dad. That's a secret. Not gonna get it out of me." He added, giving John a meaningful look. "Now, if you guys don't mind, I kinda want to pass out for a while, so keep it down, okay?" he muttered, feeling the tug of unconsciousness getting stronger.

"You look like hell." Sam observed. "You okay?"

"Just need sleep." Dean murmured. "I'm tired."

"Did you eat anything today?" Sam questioned. Dean shifted in bed, already half-gone. "Dean?"

"No. He slept most of the day." John answered instead. "We should let him sleep." He added, shepherding his youngest out of the room.

"Did he take his pills?" Sam demanded, "The ones for his stomach and kidneys, did he take them?"

"Later, Sammy. He needs to sleep now." John answered.

"Something happened, didn't it?" Sam looked accusingly at his father. The older hunter sighed. There was no point lying to Sam. Dean looked far worse than he did that morning.

"Bobby called." The older hunter said. "He found out what that symbol is."

"And?"

"And your brother's in trouble." John finished reluctantly. "But I'm on it."

TBC

Reviews make my muse happy...


	12. Epicenter

A/N: You probably noticed it's taking me longer to update lately. Sorry about that, the thing is, for some reason I'm having trouble writing this story. I know what's supposed to happen, but I don't seem to be able to actually _write_ it... I blame it on 'Hunted'. Hopefully, after writing a tag for that, I can finally get over it.

Hope you enjoy this chapter, and just remember, reviews make for quicker updates...

Chapter Twelve – Epicenter

Sam woke Dean up a few hours later, giving him his pills and even managing to coax him into eating some toast, which seemed to be a great start - since once the food was down, Dean's stomach seemed to have woken up and reminded him that it's been quite a while since it had had any food in it.

Dean ate two more sandwiches before John sent Sam to do his homework, telling him to stop bothering the older brother. Sam, of course, refused. John was about to tear him a new one, but then saw the pleading look on his older's face, and allowed Sam to stay, at least for a while, making the younger promise to leave soon after and let the older sleep.

John knew he'd made the right choice when he heard laughter coming out of the boys' room.

* * *

Sam wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing hard. "Seriously, dude, we totally should've been there." He finished. Dean laughed. 

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." He said, "Tell you what, next time Dad's on a hunt, you and I, we'll go there, do it the right way. What do you say?" Sam raised a brow.

"Tequila shots and all?" he asked. Dean shrugged, raising a brow.

"I'll even take you to this place I know. Man, I once met this chick there that gave me the best…" but Sam cut him off, making a face.

"Ewww! Over-sharing!" he said, making Dean laugh again, and then hiss.

"I was gonna say fake ID, you moron." Dean grimaced. "Man, Sammy, you gotta stop making me laugh. It hurts." He said with a grin, but that was enough to sober the younger brother up.

"Oh, Dean, man, I'm sorry. You okay?" he asked worriedly, quickly coming over to Dean's bed. Dean raised a brow, looking intently at his brother. "What?" Sam asked. Dean kept staring. "What is it?" Sam asked, getting a little nervous.

"Dude, I've seen pregnant chicks that didn't go through half as many mood swings as you do. You're a total girl, Samantha." Dean smirked.

"Shut up, jerk." Sam said, punching Dean's shoulder lightly.

"Okay, fine. But just remember, _I_ can seal the deal in two weeks tops. How long have you been trying to get to third base?" Dean smirked, and then frowned, his eyes losing focus.

"Dean?" Dean closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. "Dean?" Sam repeated.

"'M alright, Sammy. Just…" he took another deep breath, wetting his lips.

"You want to drink some more?" Sam suggested. Dean nodded lightly and Sam helped him drink. Dean rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. It happened too damn fast. All of a sudden, like a snap of the fingers, all his energy was gone. "Dean?"

"I think we need to take a break now, Sammy. You gotta do your homework eventually or Linda will have no use for you, right?" Dean asked tiredly, and even managed a smile.

"Should I get Dad?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head. He was asleep before Sam even reached the door to their room.

* * *

Much later that night, John had come to a decision. There was no time to sit around and wait for Dean to make the right choice. John was just glad Sam had fallen asleep in front of the TV while doing his homework. It made things easier. 

John entered the boys' room, turning the light on in the bathroom to spare Dean the glare of the harsh light in the room. This wasn't going to be easy, but it had to be done. John saw no other way. He brought over a sandwich and a glass of milk before waking Dean up. Dean woke up surprisingly fast, devouring the food. _At least he's getting some of his strength back_, John thought, and offered to make Dean another sandwich. Dean nodded, huddling back under the covers.

John returned with a couple of sandwiches and some water. Dean gave him a funny look as he poked at the sandwiches.

"What?" John asked.

"What's with the lattice and tomato and stuff?" he asked, and then frowned. "Are those _sprouts_?"

"Just shut up and eat it. It's healthy." John snapped. Dean poked at the sandwich some more.

"You sure it's not the vegetables making me sick? I think my immune system will go into shock if I…"

"Dean!" sighing dramatically, Dean bit into one of the sandwiches, practically inhaling it. "Son, we need to talk." John said as he watched Dean eat, wondering if his son even took the time to chew his food. Dean raised a brow, pushing himself farther up in the bed. John quickly rearranged the pillows to help him sit more easily.

"Talk about what?" Dean asked around a mouthful of food, then made a face and quickly reached for the water glass, gulping it down.

"I want you to tell me where that witch is." John said assertively. Dean chocked on his sandwich and started coughing. John just handed him the water, looking coolly at him, waiting for his answer.

"What?" Dean gasped, putting his plate away. "No." he shook his head. "There's another way. There has to be, Dad, you just need to find it." He said, a hint of panic in his voice. John stared at him for a long moment, and then sighed.

"There is no other way." He said. "I'm going to find that bitch and I'm going to make her reverse this curse. I will make her remove the Leech." John said coolly. Dean shook his head.

"Dad, no." he said, "You can't go. I never saw them coming. I still don't remember how they got the drop on me. Dad, you can't go. Promise me you won't!"

"Dean." John ran a hand down his face. "You have two choices. You do what she told you, or you let me take care of it. That's it. Two choices. Now what will it be?" he said sternly. Dean looked at him with wide hazel eyes, looked at him like a little boy looking at his Daddy to tell him there is no monster hiding under the bed. John remained firm, unyielding. And then something in Dean's eyes changed. He had found a third option. There was acceptance in his eyes now, determination. "No." John said quickly, "_That's_ not an option." He snapped.

"The best one I can think of." Dean said evenly.

"Well, you're not exactly in the right state of mind to be making any decisions." John snapped. "_You_ think vegetables are a health risk, I think _I'm_ the one that's gonna make the decisions around here, and _I_ say you tell me where that witch is!" John demanded. "You hear me, boy?" Dean stared at the older hunter stubbornly, saying nothing. "I am _not_ going to lose you! You tell me where I find that witch, and you tell me now! That's an order!" John hissed, loud enough to make his point, but not loud enough to wake his youngest. Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine." John said. Two can play that game. "Then you tell Sammy." he said. Dean's eyes widened.

"What?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"_You_ tell your brother why you're going to die. You tell your brother, who worships you, why his big brother isn't fighting for his life!" John demanded angrily.

"Dad!" Dean breathed, appalled.

"No! You don't get a free pass on this one! You want to give up? Fine! You tell your brother that! You tell him why you wouldn't let me help! You answer all his questions!" the older hunter pushed. Dean shook his head pleadingly.

"Dad, stop it!" he implored

"No." John shook his head. "That's what you want, that's the decision you made? Be a man and face the consequences!" Dean shook his head more vigorously.

"But I am fighting it! I am, Dad! I just… It's hard, but if I could just hold on long enough, maybe I could…"

"What? Huh? Maybe you could what, Dean?" John demanded. "Last one more day? Suffer such pain it will make you beg for someone to put a bullet in your head to make it stop? That what you had in mind?" John snapped. There was no time for coddling. Not now. Dean had to face reality. He had to find out where that witch was before it was too late, and if breaking Dean was the way to do it, then fine. He'll pick up the pieces later. As long as he can make sure there will _be_ a later.

Dean's heart was racing, his stomach convoluting, his breathing became quick, shallow. He was shaking, his eyes darting around, his mind trying to find a way, a loophole, something that could help.

"I'll go." He said weakly.

"What?" John leaned in closer, not sure he's heard right.

"I'll go." Dean repeated, "I'll go talk to that witch, try to make her change her mind, try to… I don't know. Something." Dean said quickly. John shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"Dean, you can barely make it from the car to the house." He reminded him. Dean stared him right in the eye, squaring his jaw.

"I can make it." He insisted. John shook his head, sighing, and ran a hand through his hair.

"You need to tell me where I find that woman, Dean. And you need to do it now." He said firmly. Dean shook his head stubbornly, avoiding his father's look. "Fine." John said after a long moment of tense silence, getting to his feet. "Don't tell me." Dean wrinkled his brow, looking questioningly at his father. John shrugged. "I know where you were supposed to be, I know where they found you, and I know where you left your car and what motel you were staying at. I've gone on hunts with less information than this." John said simply, and Dean's eyes widened again.

"Dad, no!"

"Just gonna take me longer," John ignored him. "But I figure, I'll get to the house, go through it, probably pick up the trail from there." He continued.

"No. Dad, you can't! Promise me you won't!"

"Then tell me where I need to go, save me the time." John said, looking intently at Dean, who was squirming in bed. Dean looked up at him.

"Dad, please, don't do that." He said, "Somebody has to stay with Sammy. Someone has to take care of him, keep him safe…" Dean pleaded.

"Okay then," John gave a slight nod. "I'll leave some money on the table. And don't think that just because I'm not here, you can go ahead and eat all the junk food you want." John said casually, heading for the door.

"Dad!" the desperate tone in his son's voice made him stop. He turned, looking at Dean, who was looking worse by the minute. "What if it doesn't work, Dad?" Dean pressed, "What if it doesn't work, and you go out there, and she does the same thing to you? Who'll look after Sammy?" John hesitated for a moment. Dean was getting too worked-up over this, John doubted it was a good thing. He sighed again.

"Just tell me what I need to know, Dean. The more I know, the better prepared I am." He said calmly, and Dean shook his head again. He was looking rather shaky now, and John started questioning himself, thinking maybe he shouldn't push so hard. But then again, Dean's time _was_ limited, who knows how much time he had left. "If I know where she is, I can watch the place, study it, figure out how many people are involved in this, figure out the best way to do this." John said, trying to appeal to his son's rationality. Dean seemed like a mouse trapped between an angry cat and an Acme anvil. The older hunter sat by his son's side. "I'd still go." He said softly, and Dean looked at him with those big, expressive hazel eyes. "Even if you won't tell me, I'd still go."

"You could get hurt, too." Dean whispered desperately.

"Doesn't matter." John said simply. "You're my son, I'm not giving you up without a fight."

"But I don't want you to go, I don't want you to fight. It's my battle!" Dean insisted, blinking tear away from his eyes.

"Not up to you." John said. "You can tell me, or not, but that's all that's up to you, Dean."

"You can get someone else to do it. You can call Rick or Joshua, or that creepy guy from Denver." Dean's face lit up suddenly and he looked up at his father. "If I tell you where she is, if I tell you, will you promise to send someone else? Promise you'll stay?"

"Just tell me, Dean!"

"You have to promise me!" John looked intently at Dean. It wasn't a promise he could keep. He didn't want to make it if he didn't have to.

"I don't trust them, Dean. I don't trust them to be persuasive enough. They don't care about what's at stake as much as I do." Dean shook his head again, the light disappearing from his eyes, replaced by desperation again.

"Then I won't tell you! I won't! You can't make…"

It was only John's quick reflexes that allowed him to grab the trash can and move out of the way before Dean started throwing up. John just felt frustrated at first. But then Dean kept heaving, throwing up everything he'd eaten and shaking so badly he couldn't hold the trash can on his own. John quickly grabbed it, sitting by Dean's side, grabbing his shoulder to provide something for his son to lean on.

John's worry increased when Dean had nothing else to throw up, yet he kept dry heaving.

* * *

Sam woke up to the sound of someone being sick. He blinked a few times to chase the sleep from his eyes, and got up from the couch, promptly getting himself tangled in the comforter his father had thrown on him and falling to the floor in a heap and an 'oomph'. The first thought that crossed his mind (once he got over the 'huh?' and the 'what the..?' and untangling himself from the comforter) was 'Dean'. 

He pushed the door to his room open, glad for the soft light coming from the bathroom, and was about to get in the room when his father turned to him.

"Get back to the living room, Sammy, I've got it." Sam's mind was still a little slow from sleep, so he was sure he didn't understand his father correctly.

"How's Dean? Is he okay?" Sam asked, walking farther into the room.

"Sam, get out, go back to sleep!" Sam blinked, scratching his head. It was a little confusing. His father wanted him out of the room, but he told him to go to sleep, and his bed was _right here_. "Sam, now!" his father's tone left no room to argue, and Sam stumbled back to the couch.

Dean was feeling sick. He should go help Dean. But Dad was there with him, and Dad wanted Sam to go away. Why would Dad want him to go away? If Dad wanted him to go to sleep, why didn't he just tell him to get in bed? Why send him to the living room?

The only reason Sam could think of was _Dad was hurting Dean again_. He went back to his room, but his father just got up and nearly slammed the door in his face, ordering him back to the couch. Sam just stood there, starting at the closed door for a minute, before going back to the couch. And fuming.

* * *

The last bout of dry heaves finally ended and Dean sagged against his father, too exhausted to keep himself up. John grimaced, noticing his son was still holding a hand firmly to his stomach. It was a painful reminder that the Leech wasn't the only thing wrong with his boy.

"You done now?" the older hunter asked. Dean closed his eyes, too tired to answer. John gently helped him to lie back down, and then got up and got rid of the trash can. The smell alone was enough to make him sick. He filled a glass with water and returned to his son, helping Dean up and holding the glass to his lips. Dean took a small sip, swishing it in his mouth, and then spit it out to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. John raised a brow, but said nothing. He replaced the water, and this time got Dean to swallow a few sips before he collapsed back into the pillows.

John put two fingers to his son's throat, checking for pulse, and then frowned. Dean's heart was racing, he was pale and clammy, and had just puked everything he had eaten in the past two days. Dean was completely exhausted physically, and John couldn't ignore that anymore.

"I think we should get you to a hospital." He said seriously.

"No." Dean breathed, lying on his side and pulling his knees up. John's frown deepened.

"Your stomach hurts?" he asked. It took Dean a while to answer, and when he did, his voice sounded weak and gravelly.

"Still queasy. But I think the next thing I'll throw up will be my kidney. Or whatever. Nothing left in my stomach." John ran a hand through Dean's sweat-soaked hair.

"I know, kiddo." And then after a beat, he added; "You think you can drink some more?" Dean hesitated, but finally gave a cautious nod and drank some more.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't want to die in a hospital." Dean said faintly, and John could hardly hold his tears at bay. He pursed his lips, unable to look at his aching child, forcing himself to stay in control.

"Dean, I need to know where…" but he couldn't say it. He just couldn't. Unfortunately, that was already too much. Dean's eyes snapped open and he gasped.

"Dad, no." his voice broke on the second word.

"I can fix this." John insisted, more to himself than for his son's benefit. The younger man's hand fisted in his father's shirt.

"Promise me you won't go!" Dean breathed, looking like a puppy that got run over by an eighteen-wheeler and then kicked off a cliff, and John just couldn't stand to see him like that. He would do or say anything not to see his son like this. And so he did.

"Alright." He said, sitting with his back against the headboard and pulling his exhausted son to him. "Alright, I'll stay." He repeated, "I'll send someone else." And Dean believed him. John could tell by the way Dean let his body slump against him; by the way he let his head rest against his chest. John cleared his throat. "But, Dean," and Dean raised his head to look at his old man questioningly, fearfully. "I still need to know what to tell the guys." John said, "You know, it's gonna take 'em a while to get here, I don't want them wasting anymore time looking for that witch." John finished, hoping his son was too out of it to notice the tremor in his voice.

"But you'll stay?" Dean pressed.

"I promise." John repeated, swallowing.

"You know, she might not even be there anymore." Dean said, resting his head against his father's shoulder.

"I know, sport. But that makes it even more important. The guys can't afford to lose her. Even if she's not there, they have to know where to start hunting." John said. Dean considered it.

"And you won't go? You'll stay here with Sammy?"

"I already told you I will, didn't I?" John asked. It was breaking his heart, having to lie to his son like that, having to make yet another promise he knew he wasn't going to keep. But it would hurt a hell of a lot more to lose his son then to lose his son's trust. He's broken promises to his boys before. Many of them. He had already lost Sam's trust, but Dean… Dean still believed in him. He always believed. And he will again, John knew.

"Okay." Dean said in a small, husky voice. And then he told his father everything the eldest Winchester wanted to know.

* * *

John was rather surprised to find Sam awake. Realizing the teen was furious – well, that was not so surprising.

"How's Dean?" Sam demanded, his lips in a tight line, his eyes accusing.

"Sleeping." John said, sitting on the couch next to his youngest. "Your brother isn't doing so well, kiddo." He added softly. Sam's eyes watered and he quickly looked away.

"What," Sam cleared his throat and tried again, "What's wrong with him? Should we take him to the hospital again?" he asked.

"I don't know, Sammy. He doesn't want to go to the hospital. I don't want him to get all worked up again, it's not worth it." John said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"So, what are we going to do?" Sam asked. His father gave him a long look.

"I got some information about the thing that's doing this to him." he said. Sam nodded lightly as realization spread across his features.

"You're going to go after it, aren't you? You're going to hunt it?" he asked. John nodded, pushing himself up from the couch. He was tired, but there was no time to waste. The drive alone will take a day. He walked over to his room to pack his things, Sam at his heel. "You know where it is?" Sam asked as John pulled his duffle from under the bed, shaking it to make sure there weren't any ants walking around in it.

"I'll find it." John said simply, walking over to his closet and packing a couple of shirts and an extra pair of jeans before starting on the weapons.

"How long will you be gone?" Sam asked, bringing over his father's favorite 9 mm.

"Not sure. It's a long drive, tiger." John said, and then stopped packing, straightening and looking at his youngest. "I'm gonna need you to hold the fort while I'm gone." He said, "I'm gonna need you to watch over your brother." Sam nodded quickly.

"And school?" he asked, making sure.

"I'm gonna need you here." John said, packing again. "I want Dean to stay in bed. I don't want him to have any excuse to get up, other than going to the bathroom, you got it?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at his youngest. Sam nodded again. "He can't have any pills on an empty stomach. Make sure of that." John instructed. "And try to get him to eat something. And drink, he has to drink."

"I know." Sam said, no hint of irritation in his voice.

"And try to keep him calm. I don't want him to get upset." John kept going, "I'm gonna leave you some money. You know how to get in touch with Pastor Jim." John paused for a moment, waiting for Sam's nod before he went on; "The keys to the Impala are on the table, just in case. And Sammy, anything happens, you get your brother to the hospital. Don't think about it, get him there, you got it?"

"Yes, sir." Sam nodded again. He opened his mouth to ask something, but his father bit him to it.

"Don't worry about the insurance, I'll handle that. Give them his real name, though, so they could get his file from the hospital in Bowie."

"Yes, sir." Sam said, following his father around, helping when he could.

"You should get some sleep, too, dude. It's late." John finished.

"Dad?" Sam followed his father to the door. John looked questioningly at him. "Just make sure you kill this sonofabitch. Make sure it's dead, and that it's not coming back." Sam said coldly. John gave his fifteen year old an appraising look, always amazed to find a tall, strong young man instead of a gangly boy.

He gave a slight nod before heading out the door and starting his newest hunt.

TBC


	13. Teleseism

Warning: Some bad language. That's what you get when you mess with John Winchester.

Chapter Thirteen – Teleseism

After ten hours of driving, his back was protesting pretty loudly. It wasn't the reason he'd stopped though. It was when a panicked car horn woke him up and he found himself head to head with a truck. Yes, there was no point to keep going if he was going to crash the car and die before he even finds this witch. And so John sprinkled some water on his face, and pulled over at the first motel he could find.

He checked in, got himself in the room, and was more than happy to just nose-dive onto the bed for a couple of hours. But there was something he had to do first. Sitting heavily on the bed, John ran his hands through his hair, trying to pull his thoughts together, and then picked up the phone.

The hunter's heart began to race when there was no answer on the forth ring, and he exhaled in relief when his youngest answered on the fifth one.

"Sammy." John said, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. "You boys alright?"

"Yes, sir." Sam said.

"What took you so long to answer?" John asked.

"Sorry," Sam sounded embarrassed, "I was in the bathroom. Dean's still asleep. He's pretty much out cold. I got him to drink some earlier, but he just rolled over and went back to sleep." Sam reported. John gave a curt nod.

"Good. That's good. You're doing good, son."

"So, did you find it yet?" Sam asked. John took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes.

"Not yet. Listen, Sammy, you keep an eye on your brother. I'll call you boys later, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Sam answered, and John hung up the phone. He leaned back on the bed. A spring was poking at his side. Not that it mattered, he was asleep in minutes.

* * *

The next time John called home was over a day later. Sam answered on the third ring, and John could tell, from the tone of his voice, that something was up. 

"Everything alright there, Sammy?" John asked, huddling inside the payphone booth, tracking one of the witch's little helpers from the corner of his eye. There were five of them that he had seen so far. Damn woman was never alone. It didn't look like they were carrying, but Dean said they might be possessed, and if so… well, that was tricky.

"Yes, fine." Sam said curtly, in a way that practically screamed that it wasn't. John sighed.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. Uh, hey, Dad, could you put one of the guys on the phone?" Sam asked, "Caleb is on a job, so who've you got there? Bobby? Jeremy?" John frowned.

"Sam, what is it about?" he demanded. There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line before his fifteen year old lost it.

"You promised him! You promised him you'd send someone else! He never would have told you if he'd known you were going to go by yourself! You lied to him! He trusted you, and you lied straight to his face!" Sam yelled, John shook his head slightly, looking heavenwards, but said nothing. There was nothing to say. "He told you they could be expecting you! He asked you not to go! You promised! You promised, and you went ahead anyway!" Sam continued his tirade. His father knew better than to try and interrupt. Interrupting lead to fighting, which lead to wasting time. He didn't want to waste anymore time, and so he just let Sam vent until he saw some movement from the house. Two guys got out, got in a car and drove away. Which meant there was only one there now, with the witch. Those odds were more to his liking.

"Yes, alright, Sam. Listen, I don't have time for this right now, okay?" John cut into his son's words. "Your brother okay?"

"What do you care?" Sam snapped.

"Samuel Winchester!" John didn't have to see it to know his son had just flinched. There was a moment of silence before Sam went on.

"He's a little better now." Sam said in a small, spiteful voice. John swallowed. _Better now? As opposed to what?_ He closed his eyes. _Focus. You have to focus_, he reminded himself.

"Good." John said. He didn't ask what had happened. He couldn't. He had to keep his mind sharp. There was a witch and possibly a demon there, he couldn't afford to go in there and not be on top of his game. He couldn't afford to go in there all emotional. He had to stay calculated, in control. "You let him rest. And don't forget about his pills. I'll call you when the job's done." John finished and hung up, not waiting for Sam to answer.

* * *

That was one hell of a headache. _Ow_. John blinked his eyes open. _Ow_. He closed them, groaning. 

"Time to wake up now, Johnny."

_What the hell?_ John forced his eyes open. _Son of a… What the…? How the hell did I get here?_

"It's so nice of you to join the party, Johnny boy. But if I remember correctly, it wasn't you I invited." A female voice.

_The witch._

_Damn_.

"Have you come here seeking vengeance for your son's death, Johnny?" _where the hell was she?_ He couldn't see her, just the two very large men standing in front of him, looking almost bored.

He reached his hand and gingerly touched the side of his head. _Ow. Damn it!_ John hissed. Okay, so his hands weren't tied. That was either really stupid, or he was in some seriously deep shit. _Oh, wait, back up there a second, what did she say?_

"What did you say?" he pushed himself to his feet. _Ow, ow, ow, ow!_ John winced, touching his ribs. Not broken, but _ow!_ Definitely some major bruising going on. Maybe even a fracture. _Damn it!_

She came from behind him, her back turned to him. He was definitely not perceived as a threat, and that couldn't possibly be a good thing.

She wasn't tall, but wasn't short, either. Her long dark hair was definitely dyed. She wore simple clothes, and when she turned, she also wore a smile. One that made John want to punch her in the face. She seemed in her late forties, early fifties perhaps. Either that, or witchcraft was hell for one's complexion. She wore too much blue eye shadow and a disgusting shade of lipstick that just made her skin look all that much paler. Her eyebrows were plucked so thin they might as well have been painted on with a pencil, and her long, manicured fingernails were painted with bright red nail polish. All in all, she was definitely not using her craft to make herself prettier. Or, if she did, she totally sucked at it.

"You think you're the first one to try and avenge your child's death?" she chided. "Your son and I had a deal. He didn't deliver." She shrugged. "He didn't have to die, that was his choice." _Die? Wait, what the hell was she talking about? He just talked to Sammy, he said Dean was doing better!_

"My son's not dead!" John growled. Her smile vanished for just a moment, a thin brow disappearing in the dyed hairline. She blinked, and then smiled again.

"Oh, really?" she asked, and John wrinkled his brow. She seemed surprised. Too surprised. "Well, good. So he can still live up to his end of the deal." John spared a look over his shoulder. No one was standing behind him. Not that it mattered much. He was in a small room, with one very small window and a probably locked door. The room seemed sound proof, too. _Damn it!_ But at least he was able to take a couple of steps back and lean his back against the cold wall.

"He's not going to do that." John spat. The witch shrugged.

"Picked out a plot for him yet? Some lovely cemetery where he will spend the rest of his…" she smiled again, "death?" John narrowed his eyes.

"He's not going to die!" he snapped, his jaw working hard.

"Really? Is he immortal? Because if he's not, he's probably down to minutes by now." The woman smiled smugly. John glared at her. She didn't appear to be impressed. _Think, John, think! Stall her!_ He swallowed.

"There has to be a third option." John said in a husky voice. The witch raised a brow.

"Oh, really?" she asked. "See, the thing with Leeches, it's pretty simple. You perform a task, they dissipate. You don't, you die. I don't really see a third option here."

"There's always a third option." John said, pushing himself away from the wall. _Ow_. The witch quirked her brow again. "What is it that you want?" John asked.

"Your son knows what I want." She said dryly. John glanced around the room, taking in every detail. There weren't many – nothing he could use. _And was that dried blood on the floor?_

"Indulge me." John shrugged. The witch seemed amused.

"The young one. Samuel." She said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What do you want with him?" John demanded. The witch shrugged.

"Let's just say I have a thing for healthy teenage boys in need of a haircut." She smirked. John clenched and unclenched his jaw.

"Well, sorry. Sammy's a little occupied at the moment. How about what's behind door number two?"

"That would be your other son's funeral." The witched said dryly, and John really, _really_ wanted to deck her. He took a deep breath.

"Look, we're both reasonable people. There's got to be something else you want. What good comes of my son's death? You lose, he loses. What's the point?" John asked. The witch stared at him. The men at her sides saying nothing all this time, not even moving.

"I don't really care." The witch said eventually, half-shrugging. "He dies, I find someone else who'd do what I want. It works. Not too messy, no one can do anything about it. It's like a contract, really. Nicely untraceable..." She smirked again. This was getting him nowhere.

"I will not let my son die!" John snapped. "And I will not give my son up to you!"

"Well, you will send Samuel to me, or your other son dies." The witch said.

"I will never let you get anywhere near Sammy!" John said vehemently. "You will never have him!" the witch studied him for a long moment.

"So you favor him? Over your firstborn? You will let your child die, John, so that you can keep the other?"

"Either way, you will have me lose one of them!" John growled out in frustration. The witch smiled.

"I guess."

"I will kill you." John promised, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Oh, I seriously doubt that." The witch said. She was just lucky glares couldn't kill.

"You will seriously have me choose between my boys? You will force me to favor one's life over the other's?" John demanded angrily. The witch let out a huff of air.

"I would never ask that of a father." She said seriously, lowering her eyes for a fracture of a second, and then raising them, looking straight at John. "But then, he wasn't supposed to come here. You should have gone hunting yourself, John." She said coolly, and John could swear the room temperature dropped along with his stomach. His heart began to race. "It's not really your choice to make, now is it? You're not the one marked."

John screamed as a searing pain in his chest blinded him for a moment, forcing him to his knees as he struggled to breathe.

"I could mark you, too." The witch said wistfully, her eyes on the hunter. "But I think we've established the fact that you won't do as I want." And then the pain subsided and John could breathe again. _Oh, dear God, is that what Dean goes through?_

The witch crouched in front of him, peering at him. "That doesn't even begin to describe what a Leech would do to you." she said, as if reading his mind. John swallowed hard. "There is no way in hell your son could survive a Leech for this long. Your son is dead." She added, straightening to her full height and turning away from him.

"No, he's not!" John cried, trying his best to keep his voice steady as the pain slowly subsided. The witch turned to him.

"How can you be so sure?" she asked dryly.

"Because I just talked to him." John said through gritted teeth. Okay, so that wasn't exactly true, but she didn't need to know that. It was the only thing he had left, his only card. She seemed interested in that for some reason, and that meant he could still bargain. "He's getting stronger every day." John went on, blinking the dark spots away from his blurry vision. "His liver is fine, his kidneys are doing better, he was released from the hospital a few days ago. Walking around and everything. He will survive this, and you will lose." John swallowed again, licking his lips.

"At least this way, we both win. You ask for something else, something he can get you, and he gets better even quicker." Winchester finished. The witch narrowed her eyes.

"I don't believe you." she said. "He's dead." Her eyes darted to her two goons. "No one survives a Leech for this long."

"My son did. And he'll survive much longer." John said with much more conviction than he actually felt. The witch stared intently at him. And then the world went black and his knees gave way as he fell to the ground. His last thought before he hit the harsh, cold floor was _oh, shit, this is gonna hurt_…

TBC


	14. Fault Lines

Chapter Fourteen – Fault Lines

"Dean, please?" No answer. Sam pounded on the bathroom door again. "Well, at least unlock it, okay? Unlock the door, Dean." Sam pleaded, as he had for the past three minutes.

"Sam, shut up, would you? I can't go with you shouting and pounding on the door like that. Give a guy some privacy, would you?" Sam sighed, leaning against the wall impatiently. Dean was pissed off. Had been ever since he found out Dad went hunting for the witch. And so far, Sam was doing a really poor job in keeping him calm.

Dean passed out from hyperventilation when he'd first found out. And then… then he got furious. And careless. And, well, stupid.

Sam heard the toilet flush, and then the water running in the sink. "Deeeaaaannn, open the door!"

"Saaaaaaam, shut the hell up!" the sink was turned off. There were some muffled sounds Sam couldn't make out, and then the shower curtain was pulled with a swish and the shower was turned on. Sam sighed. _Stubborn jerk_. He pushed himself away from the wall and headed over to the kitchen.

He hasn't told Dean about Dad's call earlier, and he wasn't going to. No point, really. Dad said he'd call after the job was done. He'll tell Dean once he knew everything was okay. Sam opened the fridge, took a look inside, and closed it again. He'd order takeout in a couple of hours. Chinese sounded… healthy. It had vegetables in it, right?

He walked back to his room, leaning back against the wall, and waited, listening, just in case his brother needed his help. And _oh, there was that book he was looking for. What the hell was it doing under Dean's bed?_ Sam walked over and picked it up, sitting heavily on his brother's bed and leafing through the book half-heartedly.

Sam straightened as the shower curtain swished again. He tossed the book over to his own bed and walked back to the door, knocking on it again. There was no answer. Sam raised a brow. Was that the sink again? What the hell was Dean doing there?

"Deeeaaan! Come on already!" but the older brother kept ignoring him. Angry Dean was annoying. Well, more annoying than usual. It wasn't Sam's fault Dad was a jerk, why was Dean taking it out on him?

A few minutes later, Dean walked out of the bathroom; showered and shaved, followed by a little cloud of steam, wearing only a towel around his waist. _Great, there goes all the hot water_… Sam huffed.

"So, what, everything that's going on isn't enough for you, you need to get pneumonia, too?" he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Would you stop with the nagging already? Jeez, if I wanted to listen to all this bitching I'd get a girlfriend!" Dean snapped. Sam huffed again, waiting for Dean to pull on his underwear and sweatpants before shoving him, and not too gently, down to the bed. "Hey, watch it!" Dean hissed. Sam said nothing. He glared at Dean, giving him a look that said 'stay put', and went over to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. They were running low on gauze, he noticed. He shoved Dean down on his back, checking the recovering wound to his abdomen first, before redressing it and the one on Dean's chest.

"Does it hurt?" Sam asked as he continued to work.

"Yeah, you're quite a pain." Dean answered, smirking. Sam poked him in the chest and Dean winced. "Ow! Why'd you do that for?"

"Shut up and get back in bed!" Sam snapped, tossing Dean a shirt and hitting him in the face. Dean snorted. He pulled the shirt over his head and got to his feet, looking for a heavy overshirt and some sox.

"So, any requests for dinner, Sammy?" he asked, already on his way to the kitchen. Sam rolled his eyes, looking heavenwards.

"That you stay the hell in bed?" Sam tried. Dean stopped, peering at him over his shoulder.

"You know, that's pretty kinky, little brother. And FYI, I only go for the ladies, not the lady wannabes." Dean smirked. Sam tossed a shoe at him. Dean ducked in time.

Twenty minutes later, the house smelled of food, and as much as Sam wanted his brother to get back in bed, he couldn't resist the wonderful aroma and the promise of a good dinner.

"You look kinda okay today." Sam noted, stirring the sauce. Dean smirked, tasting the casserole and adding some more carrots, onions and Tabasco.

"Yeah, it's a bad day. Usually I look hot." He said, making himself laugh. And then his smile faded as a sudden wave of vertigo washed over him. "Whoa,"

Sam was there by his side the next second, leading him away from the stove and over to a chair. Dean didn't protest as Sam manhandled him onto the chair, pouring him a glass of water. Dean drank thirstily, putting the glass on the table with a shaky hand.

"Dean?" Sam sounded worried.

"How 'bout I tell you what to do next, Sammy?" Dean offered with a tired smile and ran a hand through his hair. The damn thing was feeding off him again, draining him. It didn't hurt so much, not this time, he just felt exhausted. Sam nodded lightly.

"Maybe we should get you back in bed?" he offered. Dean shook his head lightly, and then rested it on his arms over the table.

"No, you'd screw up the food. We'll finish it first, okay? I'll…" Dean swallowed. "I'll go back to bed as soon as it's ready." Sam's brow furrowed.

"How long?" he asked.

"Depends on how fast you can peel potatoes. I'll teach you how to prepare them," Dean said, "and then put 'em in the oven for another hour. But don't forget to cover them with aluminum foil or they won't get crunchy."

"Dean…"

"You should go back to stirring the sauce. Don't want to burn it, do you?" Dean said, lifting his head just barely. And then he straightened, his eyes intent on something behind Sam. Sam frowned until realization hit, and then his eyes widened and he whipped around to take a look at what Dean was seeing. Nothing. There was nothing there.

"What is it?" the younger brother asked. Dean blinked. He tried to push himself up from the chair, but simply didn't have the strength. Whatever it was he thought he had seen; it wasn't there anymore. Maybe it never _was_ there. Dean shook his head.

"Nothing." He took a deep breath, resting his head down again. "Close and salt the window, would you?" Sam hesitated.

"But Dad said…"

"Just do it, Sammy!"

* * *

John was startled awake. The light coming from the tiny window told him it was late afternoon. He pushed himself to his feet as the witch and three of her merry giants came in the room. The hunter hissed at the pain in his bruised ribs and head. He might have thought he had had a bad headache before. He was oh so wrong. Before was a headache not worthy of an aspirin in comparison to the one he had now. 

He shook his head, trying to make the room stop spinning and braced himself against the wall for support.

"You were right." The witch said. It wasn't easy to discern her voice from all the buzzing in his head. "He is alive. And seems quite well." _Seem? Did she say seem? Has she_ seen _him?_ "And that's just lucky for you." the witch neared him. "Now I don't have to kill you, John. Now I'm ready to make a deal."

* * *

"A scepter?" 

"That's right."

"You want me to bring you a scepter?" John asked, making sure he's heard right.

"No, I want your son to get me the scepter. He has to do it himself if he wants the Leech to let go." The witch said it slowly, as if explaining it to a very slow six year old. John was about to protest, to say Dean wasn't strong enough to do it on his own, but decided that was something the witch didn't need to know.

"Fine. And how do I find this scepter?" John asked. The witch's lips curled up in a smile.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need you, now would I?" she asked.

"So let me just get this straight," John said, circling the witch, never letting his eyes off her as the three giant men watched him. He'd noticed right away that their eyes were black this time. They were possessed, and he had to play along. "My son will find you this… Scepter of Amara, bring it back to you, and…?"

"And I will consider his task fulfilled. He will be free of the Leech. Should he survive that long." The witch answered.

"And how do I know it'll work? How do I know you can even change his task once it's been appointed? How do I know that after he gives you this scepter, you will free him?" John demanded. The witch smiled.

"You don't." she said, "But then, what other choice have you got, John? Time is running out." She reminded him.

"Is there something I need to know about this scepter? Something that will help me find it?" he asked. The witch raised a brow.

"It's old. Very old. Over five thousand years old. Its whereabouts have been lost long ago." she smirked. "Does that help?" John clenched and unclenched his jaw.

"What do you want with it?" he demanded. She rolled her eyes, sighing with irritation.

"It's shiny." She said. "Enough with the questions, John. The scepter or your child. Which would it be?" she asked impatiently.

"The scepter." He said quickly. The smile that spread across her lips made chills run down the hunter's spine. He couldn't help but wonder what mess he'd gotten his family into now.

"And you will give him more time?" John asked. The witch frowned. "My son, you will give him more time to complete this… mission?" the hunter clarified. He cried out in pain as the burning agony in his chest returned. It disappeared in seconds, but it couldn't have been soon enough.

"No." the witch said. She sighed. "Unfortunately, this is out of my hands. Once the Leech has been unleashed… I cannot stop it. I'd hurry if I were your son, though." John nodded lightly. He opened his mouth to say something. And then the world went dark and he hit the ground in a heap.

"And the boy?" the witch looked at the man who spoke, the darkness swirling in his eyes.

"If the Winchester kid can get the scepter, I'll honor my word." She said.

"But we didn't come here for the scepter." The man loomed over the witch. She smiled.

"I know," she said. "This is going to be fun."

* * *

John woke up with a headache. Again. Damn thunder. He turned in the bed, grimacing as a spring jammed against his side and his bruised ribs, and pulled the thin blanket tighter around himself. He grunted his disapproval as another thunder rolled. The next thunder got a helpless pillow tossed angrily across the motel room. 

John grunted again. Great. Damn rain made him want to pee. He tossed his legs over the edge of the bed and just stared at his feet for a moment, trying to figure out why he was sleeping with his boots on. He blinked sleepily, running a hand through his hair, and hissed when his fingers touched the tender spot. _Oh, yes_. His eyes widened. _Oh, shit!_

He looked around warily, making sure he was alone in the room. And _huh, this was the same motel room he had stayed in the day before_. John reached for the phone. He had to call home. He picked the receiver off its cradle and then put it back down. He really had to pee.

John was more than a little concerned to learn it was eleven in the morning, not that you could tell with the thunderstorm outside, but still – he was supposed to be back by now. John quickly made the call. Sam answered on the first ring.

"Pastor Jim?" _oh, this couldn't be good_. "Pastor?" Sam sounded scared. John swallowed.

"It's me, Sammy." John said thickly.

"Dad," Sam's voice was a mix of relief and disappointment.

"How bad, Sammy?" John asked, straight to the point.

"I-I don't know. I've been trying to call Pastor Jim all night. I don't think he's home. I tried the church, too, but no one answered, and I was getting so nervous…"

"Sam," John stopped his son's babbling, "What's wrong? How bad is it?" Sam forced himself to take a deep breath and compose himself before he answered.

"He had a good day yesterday. He was okay, really. I mean, he got a little tired sometime around noon, but we just sat and watched TV for a while, and he was fine. Better than fine, it was like… It was like he was _Dean_ again. And then he got up to go to the bathroom, and after just a couple of steps he just… I don't know, he just couldn't walk anymore. He just fell to the floor, couldn't even get him to bed, I had to get him back to the couch. He's still out." Sam finished. "I don't know what to do, Dad! Tell me what to do!" he begged. John swallowed hard.

"Did you check his pulse?" the older Winchester asked.

"Yes, sir. Fast, but steady."

"Did he eat anything yesterday? Had anything to drink?"

"Yes, sir. And his meds, too. Should I call an ambulance? Get him to the hospital? Or I can drive him there myself, I… I just need…"

"Sammy," John stopped him again, "Was he complaining of any pain? Anything at all?" he asked. Sam hesitated for a moment.

"No, sir. I asked, but he said it didn't hurt. Just said he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and then passed out."

"Alright, kiddo. Listen, I'm getting out of here right now. It's a long drive though, I'll probably only get there late tonight, or even tomorrow morning. You don't need to take him to the hospital just yet, but if he doesn't wake up in an hour or two, try waking him up. If that doesn't work, I want you to get him to the hospital, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call you from the road."

"Yes, sir."

TBC

A/N: See? I can update quicker. Reviews might even help me keep up with the fast updates... So please review - I love knowing what you guys think, and it makes my muse work harder.


	15. Fractures

A/N: Sorry for the late update. This week has been... bad. And I will be starting work next week. I have nearly all the chapters outlined, so I hope I can keep updating weekly, but I guess your reviews are gonna be the deciding factor between going to sleep after a really long day, or updating... So please review.

Also, I'd like to take this chance and again thank everyone who reviewed so far, and everyone who has this story on their favorite list. You guys make it worth it! I especially want to thank all the anonymous reviewers - I may not be able to reply to your reviews, but they are all appriciated and loved. Thanks, and please keep reviewing.

Chapter Fifteen – Fractures

John didn't wait for the storm to die down. He got in his truck and floored the gas pedal. He stopped once, to gas up the car and buy some food, and kept going. He called Sam from the motel he stopped at for the night. Sam sounded calmer this time, saying Dean was asleep, and that he was doing slightly better. John slept for four hours before getting back on the road, and didn't stop until he got home.

It was raining when he got back to the house. It was damn cold, too. John took a look around the house first, before getting in, just to make sure everything seemed all right. It was still dark outside due to the rain, but the lights were on in the house. John used his key to unlock the door and opened it. He frowned. A shotgun, probably loaded, was propped up against the wall, ready for use. There was a thick line of salt before the door. And…

"Jeez, Sammy, put that down, would you?"

"Dad?" Sam breathed in relief, lowering the sawed off shotgun in his hands. "You scared the shit out of me. We heard someone in the back…"

"Yeah, I wanted to make sure the place was secure." John said, "What's with the salt? I thought I told you…"

"What's the password?"

"Dean?" John was more than surprised to see his oldest not only out of bed, but also holding a .45 firmly in his hands, pointed at John's head. "What are you doing out of bed?" Dean cocked the gun.

"I said, what's the password?" Dean repeated coolly, and Sam raised the shotgun again, inching towards the shotgun near the door, shooting hesitant glances from his brother to his father.

"Pinky and the Brain." John said, "And it's about time you chose a password that's not a cartoon, Sammy." he added. Sam lowered the shotgun again, glancing at Dean, who was still pointing the gun at his father. Dean clenched his jaw, staring at his old man for another moment, before he un-cocked his gun and lowered it, tucking it in the back of his jeans. John gave a slight nod, stepping over the salt line and closing the door. "Now, you want to tell me what the hell's going on?" John demanded. Sam glanced at Dean. John followed suit. "You weren't supposed to be out of bed." He said accusingly.

"Yeah? Well, you weren't supposed to go anywhere." Dean said, turning his back on his father and going in the kitchen.

"Sam?"

"Dean thought he saw something. We wanted to make sure, you know, be safe." Sam explained. John nodded.

"I thought I told you about the salt." He said, peeling away his wet coat and kicking his boots off. Thank heavens the place was heated up.

"I know, but Dean insisted." Sam shrugged. "You had any breakfast yet? We made eggs. I think there's some left. And I can make you some toast." He offered.

"Yeah, that'd be great, son. Any coffee?" John asked.

"No. Dean made some, but I poured it down the drain. Doctor said he shouldn't be drinking coffee, right?" John smiled at his youngest.

"I bet he didn't take that very well." John said and Sam smiled back.

"Probably why he's so cranky." Sam said.

"You mind making some?" John asked. Sam nodded, following his father to the kitchen. Dean was leaning against the wall, hands crossed over his chest.

"You got hurt." He noted. The bump on John's head was pretty hard to miss. The hunter gave him a long look.

"Good thing I got a thick head, huh?" he smiled. Dean stared blankly at him for a moment, and then left the kitchen. A second later, John could hear the TV in the other room. John sighed, looking at his youngest. "You mind telling me what's going on, Sammy?" he asked. Sam didn't look at him. He made the coffee, brought his father the cup, but didn't look at him.

"You shouldn't have left." Sam said quietly.

"I did what I had to do." John argued. Sam smiled bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Why is he out of bed?" John asked, taking a sip of the hot coffee. It was doing wonders to heat him up.

"Because he's too stubborn to stay in bed. He's either too weak to even open his eyes, or he's acting like nothing's ever happened, like he can go on a hunt right now if he needed to." Sam said, irritation evident in his voice.

"So he's doing better?" John asked. He really didn't expect that.

"No." Sam said, looking at his father now, and suddenly the hot coffee wasn't enough to keep the older man warm. "He _acts_ like everything's okay. He acts like nothing's happened. He cooks, and jokes, and watches TV, and bosses me around. And then, at some point, he just passes out. Just… falls down and stays down. For hours." Sam said tersely. "First couple of times that happened, I was sure he'd even stopped breathing." Sam went on coolly, "But then he wakes up and…" Sam sighed, shaking his head. "Like he's got something to prove or something."

John considered Sam's words for a moment while drinking his coffee. Sam brought over the leftover eggs and made his father some toast. The food was cold, but it's been a long time since the older man had had anything to eat. Sam sat next to his father.

"So, did you find it?" he asked.

"Yes." John answered around a mouthful of toast and eggs.

"And?" Sam pushed as John ate his breakfast. John ate quietly for a moment and then sighed, looking at his youngest.

"And we've got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it." The hunter admitted. "I need you in full research mode. Think you're up to it?" Sam raised a brow.

"What are you looking for?" he asked. John sipped from his coffee.

"A way to save your brother's life." He answered, getting to his feet and heading for the living room, coffee in hand. Sam started to follow, but John stopped him.

"Sammy, I need a moment alone with your brother. Why won't you do the dishes, clean up a little?" John suggested. Sam rolled his eyes, and reluctantly did as he was told.

The eldest Winchester sat on the couch next to his son, both of them staring at the TV.

"What are we watching?" John asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Dean asked, not bothering to look at his old man.

"No, just in this state." John said, staring at the TV. "And Minnesota. I always get my ass kicked in Minnesota." He added in an attempted of humor. Which failed miserably. Dean simply changed the channel on the TV. John sighed. "She really does sneak up on you, doesn't she?" he asked, smiling a small smile. Dean remained expressionless. "I'm fine, kiddo." John sighed, putting his coffee down on the small, rickety, coffee table. "Got some bruises, but nothing serious." He admitted. That earned him an angry glare.

"You could've died!" Dean accused, "And then what? Did you even think about that? Did you even think about Sammy? About what was going to happen to him after I…"

"You're not going to die, Dean!" John said firmly. Dean snorted, rolling his eyes, and changed the channel again. John just sat there quietly for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment. Dean shrugged.

"I'm fine."

"Why don't you go lie down for a while?" John suggested.

"I said, I'm fine!" Dean insisted, glaring at his father.

"How's your stomach?" John asked. Dean ignored him, changing channels without stopping long enough to even see what was on. "You know, you really scared your brother." John went on. Dean kept ignoring him. The older man scratched his short beard. "I found her. The witch." John said softly. At that, Dean turned.

"Found her? Or did she find you?" he demanded. John sighed, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. Dean shrugged him off.

"I'm really okay, kiddo. Been hurt worse by spirits. Won't even leave a mark, I promise." John said gently, seeing the tension in his son's shoulders.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Dean demanded. John said nothing. There was nothing to say. "Did you kill her?" Dean asked a moment later. John studied him for a moment. He wasn't pale, but he still seemed tired. John scratched his eyebrow.

"No. Killing her won't stop it." He said after a moment.

"Then what will?" Dean asked in a small voice. John stared at him for a long moment. Dean was so much like his mother it made John's head spin sometimes. His gentle features, his eyes, his hands, it reminded him so much of his Mary, reminded him of what he was fighting for.

"You have to do what she asked you to do, that's the only way." John said finally. Dean shook his head, looking away from his father.

"No. No way. That's out of the question." He said sternly.

"Dean,"

"I'm not doing it, Dad!" John took the remote control from his son's hand, turning the TV off. "I'm not doing it!" Dean repeated defiantly.

"She knows." The older man said softly. Dean wrinled his brow, looking questioningly at his father. "We had a long talk. I was able to… convince her that this will be pointless, that no good can come of this. That you would die, and she still won't have what she wants." John said. Dean just looked at him, waiting. "We've come to a more… lucrative agreement." Dean stared suspiciously at his father.

"What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"Why don't you go to bed? Rest a little, I think it'll do you good." The father suggested.

"What's the new agreement, Dad?" Dean insisted.

"I'm taking care of it." John said, pushing himself off the couch. Dean practically jumped to his feet.

"Dad, tell me you didn't do something stupid! Tell me you didn't trade yourself or Sammy…" John put his hand on his son's shoulder.

"Go lie down, son."

"Dad…"

"We have to find something for her. An artifact." John relented. Dean studied him, trying to decide if he was being lied to. "I promise, son. Now, go lie down." But Dean didn't move. He'd been promised things before, his father broke his promises all the time. "Dean…"

"Tell me you didn't…"

"I didn't." John stopped him. "But I swear, Dean, if you don't get your ass in bed in three minutes, I'm gonna kick it so hard you'd wish it was that witch you were facing, you got me?" he clipped. Dean studied him a moment before nodding.

"Okay." He said, and headed for his room. John watched him go and rubbed his chin. Dean looked better. A lot better. But he knew from experience; looks can be deceiving. Time was running out.

* * *

John closed himself in his room with his journal and the phone. He couldn't remember ever hearing about the Scepter of Amara, and he didn't have the time to look for it by himself. He called every one of his contacts for help. No one has heard of it, but they all promised to look. 

By the time John came out of his room, Dean was fast asleep, and Sam was in the living room, reading from his sociology book, trying to keep up with the schoolwork he was missing.

Hearing the door to his father's room open, Sam lifted his head from the book he was reading. "Anything?" he asked.

"Not yet." John sighed. "How's your brother?"

"Sleeping." Sam said. "So, what are we looking for?" he asked. John rubbed his tired eyes.

"The takeout menus." He said. "I'm starving."

"By the fridge." Sam said, getting to his feet. "And then?" John raised a brow.

"And then?"

"After we eat?" Sam pushed.

"We're leaving." The older man answered.

"To go where?" Sam persisted.

"We need to find a scepter."

"A scepter?" Sam asked in bewilderment mixed with amusement.

"Yeah, that's what _I_ said…"

* * *

Dean was slow to wake up. He blinked a few times, sitting up slowly, and grunted at the light in his eyes. He pulled the covers around him, scratching at his head, his hair sticking up all over. 

"What's going on?" he asked, seeing his brother packing a bag for the both of them.

"We're going on a hunt." Sam said, folding a few of his brother's thickest shirts and stuffing them into the bag. Thunder rolled outside.

"And you're taking my stuff?" Dean asked. Sam stopped his packing, glancing at his brother.

"You're coming, too." He said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Dean rubbed his brow tiredly.

"I don't think so." He said. "Too tired, Sammy. I'll only slow you guys down."

"Tough." Sam said, "You're coming. You should get dressed." He added a few more pairs of sox and underwear to the bag before zipping it up. Dean blinked owlishly a few more times, his mind a little slow to wake up for some reason.

"What are we hunting?" Dean asked as he got out of bed. He stumbled back down when the vertigo hit him.

"Dean?" Sam looked at his older brother worriedly. Dean pressed a hand to his head, eyes closed, waiting for the dizziness to pass. "You okay?"

"Dizzy." Dean said, "And tired. Maybe I should stay here."

"Dad said you're coming." Sam said, shouldering the heavy bag. "You should get dressed. It's really cold out." And as if to prove a point, the whole house shook at the sound of rolling thunder.

"Sammy, I don't think I can…"

"You boys ready?" John asked as he walked in the room, his coat a little wet from the rain outside.

"All packed. Dean just needs to get dressed, and we're ready." Sam reported. Dean swallowed.

"Dad, I don't think I should come with you." he said in a small voice. John frowned.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'll slow you down." Dean said, "I'm way off the top of my game." He admitted, grabbing his pillow and holding it to his chest, resting his head on top of it.

"Are you in pain?" John asked worriedly. Dean shook his head slowly, too tired to even answer. "Can you read?" John asked. Dean looked puzzled at the question. "Get dressed, you're not staying here."

"But…" Dean stuttered. "You're going to stick me with research?" he asked. That was actually good. It was something he could do, no matter how much he hated it or how boring it was – he could still help. It would, however, require him to get up from the bed.

"We're all on research duty for now." John said. Dean looked up at him quizzically. "Remember I told you about the deal I made with the witch?" John asked, and Dean nodded lightly. "Well, we need to find something for her, bring it to her." John explained.

"We're going to Bobby's?" Dean asked, pushing himself off the bed and over to the closet, where Sam handed him a fresh shirt and a hoodie.

"No, I don't think it's something like that. It's something old, very old." John said. He watched as Dean changed his clothes slowly, stiffly, leaning heavily against the closet.

"Then where are we going?" Dean asked once he managed to pull the hoodie over his head. John smiled.

"We're going to visit an old friend with the largest collection of old things you guys know." He said. Dean just blinked and shrugged, fighting to keep his eyes open. The pressure in his chest was back, and it was getting stronger.

"Can't we look it up online or something?" he suggested, slumping back down on his bed. John eyed him for a long moment.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. Dean shrugged.

"She told you she wanted you to bring her some _thing_?" he asked, studying his father.

"She told me she wanted _you_ to bring her some thing." John said. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look so good." He observed.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"Because I really don't want to be cleaning up puke from my truck, so if you think you're…" John started but Dean held up his hand to stop him.

"Why'd she want this thing? Why did she agree?" he pressed. John glanced at Sam, and then looked back at Dean. He sighed, sitting next to his son.

"I guess she's a reasonable person," John said, touching his hand to his son's forehead. Dean didn't have a fever. He did, however, lean into the touch; which was very un-Deanlike. "She was smart enough to realize no good would come to her if you died and she didn't get what she wanted, so she said you could find her this thing instead." John finished.

"What's so special about this thing?" Dean asked, "Why does she want it?" John sighed, getting to his feet and pulling Dean up as well.

"I don't know." John grunted, "No one knows. No one's heard of this thing." He said, motioning Sam to go ahead and head on to the car. "That's why you're so not getting out of research. Tired or not, you are so not pulling the asthma thing on me. I know you're just making it up."

"Am not," Dean said in a small voice, leaning against his father as they made their way outside. "I'm totally allergic to boring."

TBC


	16. Seeking Help

Chapter Sixteen – Seeking Help

The storm died down slowly. It was still raining, but not very heavily. The roads were slippery, though, and John wished he'd trusted Sam's driving abilities as much as he'd trusted Dean's at that age. It was probably his own fault, John knew. He didn't really give Sam a chance to prove himself. On the other hand, he'd never really given Dean a chance, either. Dean just took it.

John glanced in the rear view mirror. Sam was resting his head against the window, blindly staring at the darkness outside and the fat raindrops as they trailed across the window. Dean had his headphones on, listening to something loud; loud enough that John could hear it.

John expected Dean to fall asleep as soon as they got in the car, he expected Dean to sleep through the entire drive. Instead, Dean seemed the most energetic of the three Winchesters. He was bobbing his head to the music, tapping his hands to the beat, looking outside with interest. He had offered to take over the driving three times now, and as much as John was glad to see his son feeling better, he couldn't help the feeling that it was just the eye of the storm.

"Dad, are you sure you don't want me to drive?" Dean offered again, catching his father's red eyes in the mirror. "I don't mind, really." John covered his mouth as he yawned. He was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Why don't you try to get some shuteye?" John offered instead. Dean shrugged.

"Not tired." He said. "I am hungry, though. Anyone packed anything to eat?" he asked, looking from his father to his brother. Sam shrugged, yawning.

John stopped at the first place he could, letting the boys grab a table while he took his time in the bathroom. He had to wash his face several times to get the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he couldn't keep driving for long. He hasn't slept the previous night; at least not a restful sleep, and he hasn't slept the night before, either. He was running on empty, and if he didn't get some sleep soon, there was a real possibility that he'd crash the car.

He cancelled Dean's order the minute he sat at the table. Dean protested, saying John didn't even know what he'd ordered. John simply told him he didn't care and ordered him a salad and whatever had the least amount of grease on the menu. Dean gave him dirty looks all throughout dinner, but emptied his plate; a sure sign that he was indeed hungry.

A twenty minute drive got them to the motel the waitress told them about. John and Sam seemed more than happy for the break, but Dean wanted to keep going, again volunteering to drive. John ordered him to shut up and go to sleep.

* * *

"Mmmm…" John grunted in his sleep, shaking his shoulder to be rid of that annoying hand trying to shake him awake. The hand was persistent. "Go back to sleep Sammy. Or watch some cartoons. Or go bug Dean, he doesn't mind getting up early." John muttered, pulling his pillow over his head, but quickly put it back once he realized sleeping on his Glock wasn't all that comfortable. 

Dean raised a brow. _I _knew_ it! I knew he put Sammy up to it! I _hate_ getting up early!_ "Dad, wake up." He said again, giving his old man another shake. John grunted again.

"Five more minutes." Dean closed his eyes, taking as deep a breath as he could. He pressed both hands to his head. He could really use _not_ having a headache right now.

"Dad, come on, we have to get going. Wake up, we need to go!" he said more urgently. He would have jumped on the bed, but he was feeling queasy as it was. His father groaned, opening one, very reluctant eye.

"What time is it?" he asked. Dean glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Twenty past four." He answered.

"In the morning?" John asked incredulously, turning in his bed again. "Go to sleep." He ordered.

"No, Dad, get up. We have to go. Now. We need to hit the road." Dean insisted.

"Road'll still be there at seven. Now get back in bed and let me sleep." John demanded.

"Look, I can drive for a while if you're too tired, but we have to leave." Dean persisted. John gave another disgruntled grunt, propping himself up on one elbow and glaring at his firstborn.

"Dean, bed. Now." He ordered, no room for compromise, not listening to anything farther.

"But…"

"NOW."

* * *

John was asleep again in minutes. 

He woke up about two hours later, cursing. He had to pee, but really didn't want to, because it meant getting out of this nice, somewhat soft, warm bed, and out into the freezing cold air and frozen tiles of the bathroom. He lay awake in bed for a couple of minutes, trying to decide if he could hold it in just a little longer or if he had to freeze to death answering nature's cruel wake up call. Nature won. _Damn nature. Always hated camping anyway._

John cursed as he washed his hands with frigid water and dashed back to bed, hoping he could get warm again. The bed was cold already. _Dammit_. He curled in bed, shivering and pulling the covers tighter around himself. It took him a moment to realize someone was watching him. Instinct took over.

Dean didn't even flinch when his father's gun pointed at his head. He was sitting in his own bed, back against the headboard, arms crossed across his midsection. He looked tiredly at his father until the older Winchester shook his head, putting his gun away.

"Jeez, Dean, what's with the staring? I nearly put a bullet through your head." John admonished.

"Safety's on." Dean noted.

"So not the point." John grumbled, fluffing his pillow.

"Are you awake? Can we just go now?" Dean asked in a tired, little voice. John stopped, frowning, looking at his son.

They'd been on the road for three days now, driving up to fifteen hours a day. Dean seemed to be doing better somehow. He was eating whatever he got his hands on, looking healthier and more alert than he's been in weeks, even playing practical jokes on his brother again. But not now. Now he seemed sick again, tired, weary. John sighed.

"Have you slept at all?" he asked. Dean gave a little shrug. John studied him a moment longer, and then got out of bed. _Damn, it was cold_. It wasn't raining, but it was just making it worse, because the temperatures kept dropping and there was more than a little chance of getting snow. "Does it hurt?" John asked, running both hands through his hair, trying to make it stop standing in funny angles. Time for a haircut; something Sammy should learn to recognize.

Dean shrugged again. "Not too bad." He said. John let out his breath.

"But enough to keep you from sleeping." He said. Dean gave another small shrug.

"It's impatient." He said by way of explaining. Only it explained nothing.

"What does that mean?" John demanded. It came out a little harsher than he intended to, but it was too damn early. Dean rubbed his eyes, scratching his eyebrow.

"I don't know," he said wearily, "I just… We need to get going. It gets better when we're on the road." Dean said. John studied him a moment longer, then gave a slight nod.

"Alright." He said, and started getting dressed. Dean remained in bed, under the covers, his eyes following his father. "Why won't you wake up your brother, I'll get our things ready." John suggested.

Dean gave a small nod, pushing the covers away and getting slowly to his feet. He tried to hide his unsteadiness, but the older hunter still noticed. He kept watch over his eldest, albeit from the corner of his eye. Dean was a little wobbly, his face a shade between pale and green. His usual grace was missing; he seemed heavy, practically dragging himself along.

"Maybe we should stay here for a little longer, let you rest, gather up some strength?" John suggested. Sam looked from his father to his brother, frowning. Dean shook his head, running his fingers through his short hair.

"No, we have to go. It's impatient." Dean repeated, making John frown.

"You've said that before. What does that mean? What's impatient?" he asked. Dean just stared at him for a moment, then looked down at his chest, and then quickly up at his father again. John sighed, sitting heavily on his bed. "How do you know?" he asked. Dean tossed him the keys to the truck, hinting that it was just as easy to drive and talk as it was to sit and talk. John conceded, getting up slowly. "You didn't answer my question." He noted as they got in the car and Sam went to the main office to check them out. Dean stared at him, shaking his head a little. "How do you know the Leech's impatient?" John repeated his question just as Sam got in the car.

"Because it hurts that way." Dean answered, and could he be any more cryptic?

"What does that mean?" John demanded as he started the car.

Dean sat in the passenger side this time. John wanted to keep a closer eye on him. Besides, Sam was more than content to have the backseat to himself so he could go back to sleep. They snagged the blankets from the motel, and good thing, too, because even though the heating was on, it was still damn cold.

"I don't know how to explain it." Dean said after a moment.

Dean still looked pale and tired, exhausted. John kept glancing at him every now and then. He pulled the car over by a roadside diner. He hasn't had his coffee yet. He didn't mind not eating, but there was no way he could start his morning without coffee.

"You can at least try." The older Winchester said as he killed the engine. Dean thought about it for a moment, but then just opened the passenger side door, getting out of the car. His father and brother followed.

The overhead bell jingled when Sam pushed the door opened. A few of the diner's patrons turned their heads to look at the newcomers, but quickly turned away to their own business. Sam slid into a booth in the back, Dean sitting down next to him, across from their Dad. The older man scanned the place, satisfied there were no visible threats.

"So, it hurts like it's impatient." John prompted again, not letting this go. Sam glanced at his older brother over his menu. Dean sighed tiredly.

"Yeah, I guess." He said, rubbing his eyes.

"As oppose to?" Hesitation. Dean busied himself with the menu for a long moment before putting it aside. He really didn't think he could eat anything anyway.

"As oppose to when it's angry." He said finally. Sam stared at him, and then at his father. The older hunter clenched his jaw.

"How can you tell the difference?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"Oh, I can tell, no problem." Dean said quickly. A large waitress with frizzle brown hair and a scowl dropped her notepad on their table.

"What will it be?" she asked, uninterested. Both Sam and John ordered the breakfast special and coffee, milk for Sam. Dean just asked for a hard boiled egg. The waitress gave him a funny look, but wrote it down anyway and left.

"You're not hungry?" John asked. Dean just shook his head, leaning both elbows on the table and resting his head on his hands. "And it's… impatient now?" John asked, getting back on track. Dean just gave a slight nod.

The waitress returned a couple of minutes later with John's coffee and disappeared again. She came back nearly ten minutes later with the two breakfast specials; scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and some jelly, and Dean's hard boiled egg. Sam reminded her of his milk and she glowered at him, but said nothing. She was so going to spit in his milk.

"You sure all you want to eat is a hard boiled egg? Maybe you should get some toast or something?" Sam asked.

"Oh, I'm not going to eat it." Dean said. "It's just the only way I could think of to explain." John straightened.

"Explain what?"

"Well," Dean held the egg gently between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up for his Dad to see. "It's always there. The pressure. It usually… I don't know, I can usually ignore it. But then it gets impatient." Dean said, putting just enough pressure on the egg to crack the shell, hard enough for tiny pieces of shell to come off. Sam swallowed hard, suddenly wishing for his milk, even if there will be spit in it.

"See, when it's angry… it's different. Angry means," and Dean crushed the egg completely in his hand. Crumbs of shell and egg littered his hand and the table, making a mess. Sam paled, eyes going wide. John gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. Dean didn't have to say that if it got impatient enough, it got angry. He got up quietly, going to the bathroom to clean himself up.

John asked for his and Sammy's breakfasts to be packed to go, along with another order, just in case Dean got hungry later on. He'd also asked for more coffee. They only waited in the diner long enough for the surly waitress to bring them their food, and then hit the road.

Half an hour into the drive, Dean was fast asleep, looking as peaceful as he could while sleeping in an uncomfortable seat of a moving truck.

John only stopped driving three times after that, for gas, food and bathroom breaks; all done at the same time.

* * *

John parked the car at the end of the gravelly road, killing the engine. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the headrest for a few seconds. He was so tired, he figured he could probably sleep for twelve hours straight. He was starving, too. 

John took a deep breath and looked at both his sons. They were both sleeping, which was the only reason he actually got away with the music he was listening to. He may have made the 'driver picks the music' rule, but between the two of them, Sam and Dean were experts on driving him crazy until he changed the station.

"Boys, wake up, we're here." John said in a tired voice. He was glad to see Dean woke up just as quickly as Sam. He hadn't complained about any pain since they got on the road, but on the other hand, it _was_ Dean, and he wasn't one to complain unless things got really bad.

Dean blinked a couple of times as Sam pushed out of the car, eager to stretch his bones. "Pastor Jim's?" he asked as he took in the familiar house. John got out of the car slowly, working the kinks out of his neck and back. The cold made him shiver. Dean followed him out of the car slowly, tugging his coat tighter around himself and shivering nonetheless. "Are we picking up the books and stuff?" Dean asked. John looked at him for a moment.

"No, we're staying here." He explained. "I already called Jim, he said he'd be happy to have us. It'd be easier, too. Not to mention cheaper." John's lips tugged up in a small smile. Dean frowned.

"But just for a while, right? We're just doing the research here or something, and then go to the motel, right? We're not _staying_ here, we're staying in a motel, aren't we?" he asked, and the sudden tremor in his voice made John raise a brow, made Sam look at him in the way Dean hated.

"Why?" John drawled, "Is that a problem?"

"He's a priest!" Dean snapped, almost accusingly.

"Yes?" Dean shook his head.

"I'm not staying there!"

"Dean, it's just Pastor Jim." Sam said, as if it made everything alright.

"I don't care, he's a priest!" Dean insisted, his eyes darting from his brother to his father, to the house and back to his father. "I am not staying there!" John let out a long breath.

"I explained everything, Dean. You don't have to worry, he won't try to exorcise it or anything. It'll be better this way."

"No!" Dean cried, wincing as the Leech reacted to the adrenalin in his body, the pressure suddenly overwhelming.

Dean started wheezing, doubling over, the frigid air hurting his lungs. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Dean looked up at his father, still gasping for breath, hand pressed against his chest. John's lips were moving; his father was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything but his own breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears.

And, _huh, that was funny_, the way the world suddenly became… fuzzy. Out of focus. Like someone ran the world through a photo manipulation program and softened all the edges, water stained and smeared everything.

Dean blinked, shaking his head. This was really starting to freak him out. His Dad was there now, holding him by the shoulders, talking to him. Only he looked like someone had erased his features, leaving only smudges of blurry colors. Too many colors, and no sound. And no air. He couldn't breathe.

"Dean!" he whirled around. He had heard that. Someone was there.

Sammy.

Sammy was calling for him.

He could hear Sammy, even when he couldn't hear anything else. Dean swallowed hard, trying to find his brother. There, so close, but so far. Smudgy, like everything else, yet a little more defined, the lines a little sharper.

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

"I'm here. Dean, I'm right here. Can you hear me?" Dean blinked. He could hear something. Words. But they made no sense. Too slurred, blending into each other. At least he hasn't gone deaf, that's a plus. Though it didn't help staunch his rising panic.

_Sam. Just think of Sam. Hold on to Sam_, he told himself as he fought to stay on his feet, as he fought for consciousness. _Hey, that was strange_, how the blurry colors shifted, tilted. _That's probably what acid flashbacks are like_, Dean thought to himself, only he's never done acid, so what the hell was going on?

Everything came to a sharp focus for a moment. Sam's hand was on his shoulder. His brother's worried face inches from his, his father right behind him. There was a sudden burst of sound, so abrupt Dean felt like his eardrums were going to pop. And just as suddenly as it came, it was gone, and everything went dark.

TBC

Please review.


	17. Rift

Warning: language.

Chapter Seventeen – Rift

Dean opened his heavy lidded eyes. Everything was still fuzzy and smeared. And too quiet. _Great. The world, version 2.0. How the hell was he supposed to tell a hot chick from a werewolf if everything looked like paint blotches?_

He blinked. _Oh. Well, that's much better_. But still quiet. And white. Dean closed his eyes again for a long moment. He felt tired, heavy. And starved. His time was running out, he knew.

There was a steady beat in the background, but that was the only sound he could pick up. That, and a familiar smell. He forced his tired eyes open. Things were even more focused this time. A hospital room. _Well, shit_.

Dean's head was heavy, must have weighed a ton, and the most he could do was turn it slightly sideways. His Dad was sleeping in a chair beside his bed, a heavy looking book in his lap. Dean strained his eyes, but couldn't see anything else on that side. There was a curtain blocking the view – that explained part of the white. He turned his head to the other side. _Shit_.

"Dean. You're awake. Gave your old man quite a fright, dear boy." Pastor Jim, who was leaning against the wall, pushed himself away from it, towards Dean's bed. Dean pushed himself up, away from the nearing priest.

"Stay away." He breathed. Jim raised his hands in a surrender motion, but didn't back away. He was dressed in simple denim and a thick sweater, his salt and pepper hair a little tousled.

"You shouldn't get worked up," he said gently. "You don't have to worry, son. I won't hurt you." Dean's eyes darted around. Sam wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Where's Sammy?" he demanded. Jim smiled kindly at him.

"He just went to the bathroom. He should be back any minute. Would you like anything to drink?" the priest suggested. Dean shook his head, closing his eyes as the world smeared again. He brought his hand to his nose and could feel a plastic tube. A nose canula. An IV line was pulling on his arm. _Wonderful_. He heard footsteps, but his eyes refused to open. A hand ran through his hair. "They said you passed out from exhaustion." Jim explained. "Considering what your father had told me, I believe there was a reason for that." He noted, and Dean heard the sound of a chair being dragged nearer. "You were dehydrated. They inserted an IV."

"How long…?" Dean rasped.

"A few hours." Jim answered. "It will be dawn soon." There was a long moment of silence before the priest asked; "How are you feeling?" Dean forced his eyes open, blinked a couple of times to get the world back into focus.

"I feel…" he frowned, looking for the right word. "Loopy." That was the best he could come up with. Jim smiled.

"You have to stay here for observation. Twenty four hours." He said. "They took a look at your stomach, too. Put you back on antibiotics, just in case." Dean licked his dry lips and the pastor sighed. "How did you get yourself in this mess, boy?" he asked, but there was no criticism in his voice.

"Dean?" Dean's eyes darted to the door. It was a little strange, how the mere sight of his little brother helped ease some of the pressure in his chest.

"Hey, squirt." He said tiredly. Sam snorted.

"You can't call me squirt anymore. I'm taller than you." he said, grinning. Dean huffed.

"Barely."

"An inch and a half." Sam said indignantly.

"In your dreams, maybe." Dean puffed. Damn, it was good to see Sammy.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked worriedly. Dean was about to answer with his patented smirk and an 'I'm fine', but realized no one was going to buy that. He offered his little brother a tired smile instead. Sam leaned his hip on Dean's bed, studying his brother. "You still look like shit." He said. "Guess I'm the handsome one now." He smirked. Dean flipped him off, too tired to speak. Sam laughed. "You know, this is a whole new level of being lazy." Sam noted, "Passing out just so you won't have to do research? That's new." He said with a smile. Dean closed his eyes. Sammy was okay, he could go back to sleep now.

Sam started talking again, but the pastor touched his arm. "We should let your brother rest."

* * *

It took some time and cajoling, but between them, John and Jim were able to convince Dean it was best if they stayed at the pastor's, at least for a few days. 

They all threw themselves into research, spending their day in the pastor's large archive and library. Sam was going through the books like they were candy; going through up to five different tomes a day. He didn't actually read everything, mostly skimmed through, looking for anything that seemed connected to the words 'scepter' or 'Amara' or anything that even sounded like that. Sam's zeal helped compensate for his brother's slow progress.

In the four days they've been staying with Pastor Jim Dean had recovered from the Leech's latest attack, but not fully. He kept growing weaker, and it was getting more and more difficult to hide that fact from the people surrounding him. He kept insisting he didn't need any help, that he could help with the research, or the house chores, or anything else that needed doing. And he tried, he truly did, but it seemed it took far less than usual to wear him out these days.

When he was alone and honest with himself, Dean would admit that this was starting to freak him out. More than that, he was scared. It should hurt, he thought, dying should hurt a lot more than this; a lot more than this heavy pressure in his chest, making it hard to breathe. The pressure on his heart, making it hard to stay warm or awake. The pressure in his head, making it hard to stay lucid and clear.

Nothing was going to make him change his mind, nothing would ever make him risk his little brother. But he had just turned twenty. He was still young, hasn't even started his own life yet. It has always been about the Demon, his Dad's crusade, his brother's well-being. He didn't have the chance to _live_ yet.

It wasn't that he was scared of dying, but dying like _this_, without having something he could fight, something he could hurt or kill or even escape. This sucked. Out loud. In surround sound.

Dean could tell his father was nervous, too. John was being even more short-tempered than he usually was, and that was saying something. Like saying space just got bigger. He kept calling his contacts every day, but so far, nothing worked, and Dean suspected his father even managed to burn another bridge or two. Which was just making Dean feel worse, because there weren't many bridges left for his father, never have been.

* * *

"Did you talk to Bobby yet?" John put a finger to his lips, quickly shushing his oldest. Dean let out a deep breath, putting the book in his hand in the slowly growing pile of 'useless' and picking another from the still large pile of 'wouldn't read it unless there was a gun to my head'. 

Dean flopped down on the worn armchair, rubbing his eyes and listening to his father talking on the phone. John quickly ended the call and sighed. "Anything?" Dean asked. John shook his head.

"I talked to Rachel and to Jake. I really thought Rachel might have something." He said, running a hand through his hair. "How's it going?"

"It's not. I did find this really good book on binding and summoning rituals. It's in Latin and some Aramaic, I think, but it could be useful sometime."

"But nothing about the Scepter of Amara?" John asked. Dean shook his head.

"Have you called Bobby yet?" he asked.

"No, but he's next." John said tiredly. Dean pushed himself off the chair.

"Well, I'm going to make myself something to eat. You want anything?" he offered. John studied him in the way that always made Dean squirm.

"Why don't you call it a day? Go lie down?" John suggested. Dean shook his head.

"No, I'm fine." He lied, and it was getting obvious that no one was buying it anymore. Dean sighed. "I can't concentrate. At all." He admitted. "So, I figured, I'll make some food, maybe help Pastor Jim chop some more firewood 'cause it's freezing in here. I don't know, do stuff that don't require too much." He shrugged, a little embarrassed. John studied him a moment longer.

"I want you to get in bed when it gets dark." He ordered. Dean made a face.

"It gets dark at five."

"And your point being?" Dean huffed. He couldn't really argue when his body felt so heavy and exhausted.

"You're calling Bobby?" Dean asked again, making sure. His father nodded, already dialing the number. "I'm making chilly." Dean said and left for the kitchen.

John thumped his fingers on the table, pushing papers around; things the good pastor never got around to filing or binding properly. John caught himself paying too much attention to some of the texts more than once, he figured Sammy must be having a field day.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby, it's me again." John said, rubbing his eyes. Dean was the only one getting more than a few hours of sleep at night, though it was easy to see it wasn't doing him much good.

"John."

"Anything new?" it was difficult to stay optimistic, but Winchester refused to give up just yet.

"Not since you last called me." Bobby said. "Listen, John, you've been looking for this thing for how long now? No one's even heard of the thing. Maybe it just doesn't exist. Demons lie, you know that." He added tiredly.

"No," John refused to go down that road, "no, it exists. She could have easily refused my offer, say Dean's gonna die and that's that. She made the deal, she asked for this scepter. It's real." Bobby sighed.

"Well, d'you ever stop to think maybe there's a reason you can't find it?" he asked. John frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I don't know, Johnny. Maybe it was hidden for a reason, buried and left to be forgotten? Maybe you're not supposed to go looking for it? Remember, those tasks, they're supposed to make you suffer, do things you wouldn't…"

"Bobby," John stopped him, getting to his feet, his heart pounding. "You know where it is." He said. It wasn't a question. Bobby was dodging him for days now.

"Now, I didn't say that," Bobby said quickly.

"But you do, you know where it is." John said with certainty.

"No, John. I don't." Bobby denied.

"Where is it?" John demanded.

"I told you, I don't know."

"Bobby," there was more than a hint of a threat in John's voice.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you, Johnny. I wish you luck, I really do." Bobby said, hanging up before John could say anything more. John clenched his jaw, still holding the phone in his hand for a few seconds, before he put it back in its cradle.

"Dean, Sammy, get your stuff." He cried out, "We're going on a little ride."

* * *

John's had three days to stew in anger by the time they made it to Bobby's. They stopped only for gas and food, eating in the car. All three of them drove, though Dean only did when there was no other choice, and never longer than four hours. 

The weather cleared up a little, the temperatures rising to a more tolerable level the souther they got. John was the one driving when they finally reached Bobby's. Both Sam and Dean were asleep when they got there. Bobby too, probably. Even his dogs were asleep. Well, most of them, anyway. John studied the old house for a moment, putting his game face on. He reached over Sam and took a gun out of the glove box. Bobby was one of his few good friends. Dean was his son. The math was easy.

Dean startled awake when John closed the car door. "Go back to sleep, I'm taking care of it." John answered his questioning look.

"You want me to come with you?" Dean offered, pushing himself up, but John just shook his head.

"I got it, buddy." He said and headed for Bobby's house. He pounded on the door, not at all caring that it was just shy of five in the morning. The dogs woke up first. _Good_, John thought, the ruckus was loud enough to wake the dead. The door opened a couple of minutes later, and a very sleepy looking Bobby peered out, shotgun in hand.

"I should put a hole in you just for getting me out of bed, Winchester." Bobby grunted. John pushed him out of the way, getting inside without waiting to be invited. "Well, hello to you, too, sunshine." Bobby grumbled, closing the door. John was already by the other hunter's messy kitchen table.

There were old books and scrolls along with old cups of coffee and some leftover dinner on the table. An impromptu study. Someone has been doing some homework.

"Where is it?" John demanded, skipping the hospitalities.

"The coffee? I'm fresh out. Would have put a pot on if I knew I was gonna have company. I do have some whiskey." Bobby grinned.

"The scepter. I want it." John said, un-amused. Bobby sighed.

"I don't have the scepter, John." He said, walking over past John and preparing a fresh pot of coffee.

"But you know where it is." John clipped. "I'm not joking around here, Bobby, I want this scepter, and I'll do whatever it takes to get it."

"So I see." Bobby noted. "I still don't have it, John." He added, "Want some whiskey in your coffee?" John scowled.

"You think I'm playing with you here, Bobby?"

"John, you have no idea what you're looking for." Bobby snapped.

"I'm looking for a way to save my son's life!" John yelled, pounding on the table. Bobby winced, and then scratched his beard.

"Your son is the one that got marked?" he asked, "I'm so sorry to hear that, John."

"You know where the scepter is, I know you do. Tell me!" John demanded.

"I can't do that, Johnny. I'm sorry." Bobby said in earnest.

"This is my son! Dean's life! He will die, do you get that? My son will _die_!" John yelled. Bobby searched the kitchen for a couple of clean cups among the piles of dirty dishes.

"John, I'm really sorry. Dean's a good kid, he doesn't deserve this. I really wish I could help."

"You can. Just tell me where the freaking scepter is!" Bobby sighed.

"I can't do that, Winchester." He said, taking a sip of whiskey. "This thing, it's dangerous. It's been hidden ages ago, and for a good reason. It has to stay protected, it has to stay secret. Brave men gave their lives to keep supernatural shit away from this thing, to keep it hidden. It's supposed to have terrible power, John, one that cannot fall into the wrong hands."

"Don't you think I already figured that part out?" John snapped, "A witch wants this thing that much, it can't be good – I get that. Trust me when I say she won't get to keep it for long, Bobby, but I will do whatever I need to save my son's life."

"I know, John." Bobby sighed again. "But I can't help you. Not with this. The good of the many outweighs the good of the one, you know that."

"That's bullshit! You think I give a damn about that? Where is it, Bobby? I'm not going to ask you again!" John demanded.

"Dad?" both men whipped their heads towards the front door, where one of Bobby's Rottweilers was salivating all over Dean's pant leg, wagging its tail. The dog was so big Dean was having some trouble staying upright, and Bobby called the dog over.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car." John said gruffly.

"I heard yelling. And Sammy snores." Dean said, then smiled at Bobby. "Hey Bobby."

"Dean," Bobby nodded in greeting, "Look at you, all grown up. And handsome, too. Must be from your mother's side. Probably has to beat the ladies away with a stick, huh?" Dean smiled awkwardly.

"Dad said you know about the scepter." Dean said, voice rising at the end, making it a question. Bobby glanced at John, shook his head.

"I'm sorry, kid. I really wish I could help you." he said. Dean paled, eyes darting around, running his hand over his mouth.

"Oh." He said, trying to mask the sudden onslaught of panic, the way the world started spinning, losing focus. The way the blood started rushing in his ears and his heart started pounding. The way his legs suddenly couldn't carry his weight anymore. This was it. Game over.

"Hey, take it easy there, champ." Bobby said quickly, rushing forward to hold onto Dean. "Come on, you need to sit down." He said, leading Dean by his shoulders to a nearby chair, and then offering him a glass of water.

"Bobby," there was warning and plea in John's voice. _Look at him_, John pleaded with his eyes, _you know him, you care for him, how can you do this?_

"Can I get you anything, Dean?" Bobby asked, ignoring John. Dean shook his head.

"So I guess it's over, huh?" he asked his Dad, forcing himself to smile. John frowned, glaring at Bobby. And then he noticed something on the table. He gave Bobby a questioning look and Bobby quickly stood between him and the table. That was all the affirmation John needed.

"Dean, get back to the car." John ordered coolly. Dean gave a slight nod, getting to his feet.

"Nice to see you again, Bobby." He said. Bobby smiled at him.

"You too, kid. Good luck." Bobby said, watching him as he went out the door, one of the pups at his heel. Bobby looked away for one second. It was enough. "John." He growled. "Put that down."

"I don't think so." John clipped.

"You have no idea what you're messing with here, Winchester." Bobby raised his voice. "This isn't just some toy! This is serious stuff. Ancient, hard-core stuff! If it's been hidden, there's a damn good reason for it, so put the goddamn book down!" he was yelling now. John met his glare unfazed. "John, if you take this book, I swear I will hunt you down. Won't be the only one, either." Bobby threatened. John didn't look away, didn't seemed bothered by the threat. Slowly, almost carelessly, he ripped the pages of the old book out, stuffing them in his coat pocket.

"You can keep the book." He said dryly, heading for the door as Bobby cursed furiously.

John was just out the door when he heard the buckshot being cocked. He stopped, but didn't turn. "If you're gonna shoot me, shoot." He said, then turned his head slightly. "This is my boy, Bobby. I'll die for him."

"Dad!" neither men turned their look to the younger hunter. Bobby hesitated, looking furiously from John to the two younger men just outside his truck.

"Don't do it, John." Bobby warned. John said nothing, just started walking away. "The scepter can't leave its place! It can't leave the protections set around it, or there'll be hell to pay! You hear me, Winchester? It has to stay where it is! The price is just too high, you hear me?"

"Screw you, Bobby." John said and kept walking.

"Dad?"

"Get in the car, Sammy."

TBC

A/N: Please review. Your reviews are my way of knowing you're still interested in this story and want me to keep writing, so please press that little button and review.


	18. Search and Rescue I

A/N: First of all, sorry for the late update. I wanted to update last Friday, but realized the alerts were down... (sigh)

I want to thank every one who reviewed so far. You guys are the reason I start writing after a long day of work instead of going to sleep - so you keep on reviewing, and I'll keep on writing. Ok?

The moving rocks of Racetrack Playa, Death Valley, Ca. are real. No one knows for sure why they're moving. I just like the mystery. And although I did research the area, some things, like the caves, are made up.

Chapter Eighteen – Search And Rescue (Part One)

John walked over to the car, opening the driver's side door. He didn't look up to see Bobby still at the door, still holding the gun in his hands, still cursing. He ignored the still barking dogs.

He couldn't ignore the fact that his oldest was still outside the car though.

"Dean?" Dean's eyes were on the other hunter, on the gun he was holding. At the sound of his name, he turned his eyes to his father. "Get in the car." It came out a little more impatient than John would have liked, but he was tired, angry, cranky, and his nerves were completely frayed.

"Maybe we shouldn't." Dean said in a small voice, looking at the other hunter again. John frowned. "Bobby wouldn't just hide this thing from us. I don't want…"

"Get in the freakin' car, Dean. Now!" John snapped. Dean hesitated. Bobby wasn't one to hold out on information.

"I'm just saying, maybe we shouldn't go after…" John slammed the door, effectively shutting Dean up.

"I told you to get in the car." He clipped, glimpsing back at the house; Bobby was gone. Dean followed his father's gaze. He pressed his hand unconsciously to his chest to try to alleviate the pressure he felt. It didn't feel right. Bobby came after them with a shotgun, for crying out loud. He _really_ didn't want them to have that scepter. There had to be more to it. Why would a witch want this thing enough to trade Sammy for it?

Seeing his son just standing there grated on John's already frayed nerves. "Dean!" he snapped.

"It just feels wrong." Dean tried to explain. "And now Bobby's angry with you…" he scratched his eyebrow, "I never wanted this, it doesn't feel right…" but his father cut him off again.

"Well, if you didn't let her get the drop on you, if you weren't so cocky as to think you can do this on your own, none of this would've happened!" John snapped angrily, "And then we wouldn't be in this position, would we?" he barked, regretting the words the moment they left his lips.

Dean looked like he'd been physically kicked in the gut, punched in the face, pushed off a cliff and then had an Acme anvil dropped on him. The color was gone from his face, his eyes misting over for a second, before he swallowed hard, gave a slight nod and got in the car. John ran his fingers through his hair, cursing, and got in the car. He took the papers he got from Bobby out of his pocket, practically shoving them in Sam's lap, and started the car.

"Read those. They'll tell us where to go. You navigate." John said dryly. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Dean's head was resting against the window, looking outside. John turned the radio on, turning the volume up, and started driving.

* * *

They pulled over at a motel a couple of hours later. After spending days in the car, with the prospect of spending many more, and after having a couple of hours to think of what he'd said to his hurt son, John decided they could all use a break. 

Dean hasn't said a word in two hours, hasn't looked at him, hasn't even complained about the music, and John was feeling more than a little guilty.

It wasn't Dean's fault. He was the one that let his son go on a solo hunt. He was the one that didn't push for information right from the start. And the witch got the drop on him just as easily as she had on his son. John hoped a shower, a good meal and a decent sleep would make things better.

He had Sammy check them in, using the time to take a look at the pages he took from Bobby's book. Written in Latin, in calligraphy, the text did look ancient. From what he'd managed to gather by the time Sam got back with their room key, Amara was a powerful demon. There were few references to prophecies concerning the demon and its part in some sort of terrible war; where it would wield its scepter and wipe out the hopes of Man. That sounded painful.

John folded the pages, stuffing them in his pocket again as he got out of the car. Sam already grabbed one of the bags and was heading for their room, calling first shower. John took the other bag, noticing that Dean was still sitting in the car, still staring blindly out the window, and making no move to get out. He sighed, opening the door to the back seat and startling his oldest.

"Come on, buddy. I think a shower and some breakfast will do you good." John said. Dean gave him a quick glance and got out of the car, saying nothing.

They got in their room, Dean slumping down on one of the beds, his head resting on his arms as he stared at the ceiling. John sighed.

"You feeling alright?" he asked. Dean shrugged. "Go on, take a shower. It'll make you feel better." John suggested. Dean shrugged again and Sam was quick to disappear into the bathroom.

* * *

Things didn't get much better at breakfast, either. Dean just picked at the paper placement mat on the table, ignoring the waitress and everyone else. He glanced up for a moment when a plate of food was placed in front of him, but then went back to ignoring the world. 

Sam and John both practically inhaled their breakfast. John glanced at his oldest from time to time, feeling worried, guilty, and even a little annoyed.

"Why won't you eat something?" he suggested in a tone of voice that made it clear that it was really an order. Dean forked his food around for a moment.

"I'm not hungry." He said eventually, not having eaten a bite, and pushed his plate away, getting to his feet. "I'm gonna wait outside." He said, leaving before John had the chance to say anything in the matter.

Sam looked at his father. "You're just letting him go?" he demanded. John took a sip from his coffee, calling for the waitress to make Dean's order to go.

* * *

Dean was sitting on the ground with his back against one of John's truck's tires. He seemed a little green, his hand wrapped around his stomach, his eyes closed. The smell and the little puddle next to him a clear evidence that he had thrown up. Sam rushed to his brother's side, helping him to his feet, and then rushed him back inside the diner, to the bathroom, where Dean threw up some more. 

When he was finished, they went back to the motel, Dean ignoring his brother and father as much as he could, and just crawling into bed. He answered their questions with an impatient 'I'm fine', but he wasn't. The Leech attacked again, and this time, the pain didn't go away. Dean swallowed a couple of painkillers before pulling his covers up over his head, and went to sleep.

Sam glared at John, practically burning a hole in the older man. John raised his eyes from the old pages he was reading.

"What?"

"Are you keeping something from me?" he demanded. "Because he's not okay. And this, whatever it is we're doing, it's not helping." He said flatly.

"It will, once we get it done." John stated.

"This scepter will make him better? What, does it have some healing powers or something? And why did Bobby come at you with a gun? What aren't you telling me?" John stared at his youngest for a long moment, before scrubbing his face.

"Sammy, this thing, this symbol that Dean has on his chest… It's killing him." he said. Sam rolled his eyes, making a 'duh' expression. "It's draining him." John continued tiredly, glancing in his oldest's direction. "There is only so much it can drain before there's nothing left." John went on. "This scepter, it's Dean's only chance. But we don't know how to use it. We have to give it to someone else so they could help Dean." he figured there was enough truth in that to make it believable.

Sam worked his jaw, and John could have sworn he could see the wheels turning in his son's head. Sam looked up at him. "So, what you're saying is that we could get this thing, and it could still be too late?" he asked eventually. John swallowed. He gave a small nod. Sam turned to look at his sleeping brother, and then turned back, snatching half the pile of pages from John. He slumped on his own bed, stretching out, and started reading.

* * *

California. 

They had to get to California, and it was taking them forever to get there.

John seriously considered taking a plane there. He would have, only that would mean leaving his truck and the weapons behind. He had no idea whose side Bobby was on; for all John knew, Bobby could have called everyone by now, tell them what John was planning to do, tell them to stop him. John couldn't trust anyone else to lend him a car or weapons. They had to drive there.

John had already decided to take a flight back from California to Maryland, save time. They'll have the Impala and another stash of weapons back home. No point wasting time.

Sam was being more helpful than John ever remembered him being. He made notes on the pages he read, even translating a few paragraphs, in case they'll need them. He kept an eye on Dean, making sure Dean remembered his pills and antibiotics. He picked up all the slack, even volunteered to drive. What was more remarkable was that he didn't pick any fights with John. At all. He did as he was told, followed orders without question, for the first, and last, time in his life.

Dean, on the other hand…

John was growing more and more worried about him. It felt like Dean was retreating into a world of his own. He barely spoke to his father, barely ate, and he was always tired, but would wake up every couple of hours. It was obvious Dean was trying to hide it, but John knew his son was in pain. The occasional grimaces and winces, and the fact that the bottle of painkillers suspiciously disappeared from the first aid kit were obvious clues.

John brought his attention back to the road ahead, back to their destination.

Death Valley, California. How appropriate.

Truth be told, John has long been fascinated with Death Valley, especially with the moving rocks of Racetrack Playa. He nearly rolled his eyes when he figured out that's exactly where they were going. Rock movement caused by ice and wind or magnetic fields, _oh_ _please_. Could it be more obvious there was something supernatural behind it? Death Valley had sulfur springs, moving rocks, stories of people disappearing… The only reason he hasn't checked the place out sooner was that most of it was covered in salt.

And now he was about to have his proof of supernatural activity in Racetrack Playa. Or, as the papers taken from Bobby's book revealed, beneath it.

Somewhere under the usually dry lake was a long set of tunnels and caves that were buried and hidden ages ago. Finding it, though, was going to be a bitch. Way too much ground to cover and he didn't even know if the EMF would pick up a signal that was buried deep underground. There was a ritual he thought of trying, something that will direct them in a general direction of supernatural activity, but it was a long shot. He had his fingers crossed that no creature was out there to screw it up.

"Dad?" John flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror. "Want me to drive for a while?" Sam suggested.

"No, I'm good." John said, reaching for a bottle of water somewhere on the seat beside him and taking a few sips. "Finished with the research yet?" he asked a couple of moments later.

"Yes." Sam answered. "Couldn't understand most of it, though. I wish we could cross-reference this with something else, get some more information." Sam said. John nodded lightly.

"But you figured out the general position, yes?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"Yes. We'll need to do some digging, but we'll get there." He said. John glanced in the mirror again. Dean was awake, staring off into the monotonous blur of the view, keeping his thoughts to himself. John sighed, turning the radio on.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Um… You know, this is actually tourist season." Sam said hesitantly, "The place will be busy. It'll make things more difficult." He noted.

"Don't worry about it." John said offhandedly. In his mind though, he cursed and shouted, and punched someone. Probably Bobby.

* * *

The sky was a mix of purple, orange and gray by the time they turned west from Last Chance Range to Eureka Valley. John was ever so thankful for the truck's four-wheel drive. He glanced back at Dean, who had his headphones on, listening to his walkman, his eyes closed. John couldn't tell if he was sleeping or just resting his eyes. 

The past three days alternated between highs and lows; with the highs being a tired, sullen Dean, and the lows... John shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about Dean being in so much pain. John turned the high beams on, driving up the gravel road to Teakettle Junction. He couldn't suppress a little smile at Sam's wide-eyed enthusiasm at the view around them.

Driving the rest of the way to Racetrack Playa was like driving around inside a blender, but the alternative was walking, and they needed too much gear to carry.

It took John and Sam over an hour just to set everything up for the ritual John wasn't even sure was going to work. Dean, who dozed off a while ago, stepped out of the car, holding a couple of water bottles just as they started. He walked slowly towards his brother and father, looking around with interest as he tightened his coat around him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, handing them each a bottle of water.

"We need to find the caves. Obviously, they're not a part of the National Park." Sam said, lighting the last candle and cursing as the wind blew it out, along with a few others.

Dean looked around, turning slowly, taking in the surrounding mountains; dark against the darkness of night. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and winced, pressing his hand over his heart.

"It's that way." He said after a moment, pointing. John glanced up at him as Sam straggled with the candles.

"What is?" he asked.

"The scepter." Dean answered simply. "It's far though. Underground, probably."

"That's why we're looking for a cave. Help your brother with the candles, would you? Damn it!" John cursed as the wind snatched the paper with the ritual out of his hand, but Dean caught it.

"Yeah." He said, looking back at the direction he pointed. "Anyway, it's that way." He repeated. Sam straightened.

"How do you know?" he asked. Dean looked from his brother to his father; both looking questioningly at him, waiting for an explanation. He shrugged.

"I think that thing's leading me. I think maybe it can sense it. Whatever, it's that way." Dean finished quickly, turning back to the car and taking out the three shovels from the bed of the truck. Sam and John exchanged a look before the older man blew out the candle next to him and got to his feet.

"Better get the EMF and the weapons bag out of the car, too." He said.

* * *

"Why, I'll be damned. How the hell did you do that?" John asked in awe, looking at his son. Dean looked impassively around, and then sat down stiffly on a large rock, pressing a hand to his chest. He had led his brother and father for nearly fifteen minutes before he stopped and said they should start digging somewhere around. John looked at him skeptically and then turned the EMF reader on. The readings were low, but still considerably higher than they were near the truck. 

Sam offered Dean a couple of painkillers and a bottle of water, which Dean accepted gladly, and John ordered him back to the truck. Dean didn't even argue, he just got up and sauntered tiredly back to the truck, quickly falling asleep.

The car door opening woke Dean up. He grunted, covering his eyes from the glaring sun, and blinked up at the bleary figure of his father.

"You okay there, buddy?" John asked, wiping sweat off his brow. Dean laid his head back, making a small guttural sound. "Come on. Breakfast time." John said. Dean pushed himself to a sitting position.

"Not hungry." He said, rubbing his eyes.

"Not a suggestion, boy. Come on." Dean grunted as he pushed out of the car. Sam handed him a cup of old coffee from the thermos they brought with them, offered him a doughnut. Dean thanked him, taking the coffee and the doughnut and sitting down next to him, munching at the meager breakfast.

"I think we're gonna have to drive out for a while, get some real food. Some more water. A shower maybe. I mean, right now, the smell alone could kill any demon." John said with a slight smile. "We'll get us a couple hours of sleep, some better coffee, and get back here." He wiped the remaining doughnut glaze on his jeans and looked at Dean. "Unless we're pressed for time?"

"I can help you dig." Dean suggested.

"No need." Sam said, devouring the last doughnut, and licking his fingers clean of the glaze. "We're done. Found it." Dean blinked owlishly at him for a moment, and then turned his eyes at his father.

"Then can I go back to sleep now?" he asked. John sighed, exchanging a glance with his youngest. Sam nodded.

"Yeah, kiddo. You can go back to sleep now."

TBC


	19. Search and Rescue II

Warnings: Language.

Chapter Nineteen – Search And Rescue (Part Two)

The Winchesters returned to Racetrack Playa near dusk. There were still people around, but John decided to wait no longer.

He drove the car as close as he could to the place Dean had shown them the previous night, bringing them away from curious eyes. John stopped the truck near the site of their recent dig, getting out first to check around. It didn't seem like any ranger had been there or that anyone had taken notice of the large, eight foot deep hole in the dusty ground. The hole was large and uneven. Its left side had a smaller gap, leading to what seem to be a very long drop.

The gap was narrow, though, not big enough for a grown man to go through. They still had some work to do.

John got back in the truck, taking out a long rope, a shovel and a duffle from the bed of the truck. He motioned his sons to follow, stopping at the front of the truck and expertly tying the rope to the bottom of the truck as Sam slid carefully into the hole.

John stopped Dean just as he was about to follow his brother. "You're gonna stay here, sport. This whole thing doesn't really look steady. Your brother nearly fell in last night, I'm not taking any chances." He said, tying the rope around his midsection.

"But I want to help."

"It'll help if you're conscious enough to climb down once we're done." John noted, tossing the shovel and duffle down to Sam.

"Dad,"

"Not negotiable." John stopped him, unyielding. "You can keep an eye out, warn us if anyone's getting close. Got it?" John asked, giving Dean a long look until Dean looked away with a sigh.

"Fine. Whatever." He said, plopping down on a large rock, his arms resting on his knees, his head propped on his hands.

It didn't take them long to enlarge the gaping hole. In fact, it only took a couple shovel strokes or so before the bottom collapsed, falling down with a dull thud. John managed to jump back just in time, flattening Sam against the farther side of the hole to make sure he was okay. They both used John's rope to pull themselves up, John wiping dust and dirt from his face and clothes.

They put the shovel away, taking weapons out of another duffle and arming themselves with everything they could carry.

"Dad?" Dean cried, peering down at the dark, seemingly bottomless hole. John glanced at him as he dropped another couple of clips in his pocket. "Um…" Dean hesitated, looking from the hole to his father and back. "Well, I can climb down no problem," Dean said, "It's the climbing back up I'm not so sure about." He finished. Sam flashed him a dimpled grin.

"Yeah, I figured that last night, when we figured how deep this thing could be." He said, pulling a dark garbage bag from the bed of the truck and spilling it's contents on the ground. A long rope ladder, or rather, two of them, tied at the ends, to make a longer ladder. "I think this will be easier. Plus, we're still gonna use the rope for support, just in case." Sam added. Dean frowned.

"I don't need a stupid support. I can climb a ladder, I'm not a cripple!" he snapped indignantly.

"Good." John said, tying the rope ladder to the truck, "It's good to know." He added, making the knots extra strong. "You're still gonna use it. Just in case." John lifted his eyes to his son. "Better safe than sorry." He shrugged.

* * *

Sam jumped the last few rungs of the rope ladder, raising a little cloud of dust all around him and making Dean choke and cough. "Sorry," Sam said, his cheeks reddening a little, not that anyone could tell in the complete and total darkness. 

The air around them was stuffy and musty. It was cold around, colder than it was outside. John shone his strong flashlight around the large, cavernous space.

"You boys stay close to me, got it? Everyone keep close." He said in a low voice that still carried a little. Sam shook his flashlight, trying to get it to light up. He cried out, cursing, when the strong beam of light started working just as he pointed it at his face. Dean sniggered, shining his own light around. He took a few steps to one side, checking something from up close, when John said,

"Alright. Not sure how I like this place. Boys, guns out. Make sure there's a bullet in the barrel. Sammy, use the silver bullets. Dean, you use iron rounds, okay?" both boys nodded, taking their weapons out and loading them, keeping them close.

John walked over to his oldest's side, frowning as he realized what Dean's flashlight beam was pointed at. Dean glanced at him, then looked back at the crushed skeletons. There were many of them; different animal, one or two human.

"Huh." Dean muttered, then cleared his throat. "Well, that's not at all ominous." He said, and started searching the ground for any kind of tracks. Those animals had to get there somehow.

"What is it, Sam?" John asked as he neared his youngest, who was studying one of the many stalagmites closely.

"I don't know." Sam said, poking the large rock with his finger, trying to scrape a little off the top. He sniffed it, making a face, and stuck his tongue out in disgust. He shone his light around, walking over to another stalagmite. "Something about these stalagmites looks…" he shook his head, going over to yet another large stone. "They almost look human, don't they? I mean, stretched out, contorted, but… there is a resemblance, isn't there?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, studying the rock carefully. John considered it, studying the rocks nearest to him as Dean still moved around. John reminded him to remain close.

Sam gasped, turning quickly to the side, pointing his light at a stalagmite he was checking earlier. "I could've sworn I saw that one move." Sam said, pointing at one of the stalagmites behind John, who quickly turned to look at it.

Nothing. A large, smooth stone. John knocked on it. It didn't sound hollow. Just a pillar.

"Probably just a trick of the light." He said with a shrug. Sam nodded, getting closer to the stalagmite in front of him. There was something etched into it. It almost looked like a word, but Sam couldn't identify the language. He shone his light directly at it, trying to recognize the letters.

_Holy shit, it _did_ move!_

Sam gasped. The world tilted as something pummeled him to the ground and he grunted as something heavy landed on top of him.

"Dad, careful!" Dean shouted, far too close to Sam's ears, as he protected his little brother with his own body.

"Dude, move, you're heavy!" Sam grunted and Dean rolled off of him, quickly pulling him to his feet.

"You're welcome." Dean said, then raised his gun and fired at a freaking Bigfoot-shaped _rock_ that came at him. "What the hell?" Dean shrieked. "Bullets aren't gonna work! It's a freaking rock collection!" he cried, pulling Sam back with him.

John let out a string of curses, dodging another moving pillar, and made it back to his sons.

"Now what?" Sam asked.

"We need to get back up there!" Dean said.

"No, we have to get to the scepter!" John insisted.

"Dad, no point getting to it if we're… rock food." Dean said. Yeah, that was weak, but so was he.

"Golem!" Sam said. Both John and Dean turned their heads to him. "A large, clay warrior. Or rock, I guess. A golem."

"Great." Dean muttered. "How do we get rid of it?" Sam shrugged.

"How the hell should I know?" he asked.

"'Cause you're the resident geek!"

"Boys!" John snapped, firing his shotgun at a golem that was getting too close. The bullet lodged inside it, causing no apparent harm. John cursed.

"Maybe Holy water?" Dean suggested.

"Did we bring any?" Sam asked.

"In the duffle." John gritted out. "Stay here." He ordered, dashing towards the discarded duffle and back to his sons.

"It's too dark, we need more light." Sam said urgently as Dean fired another round, reloading his rifle quickly.

"I have some flares in here, but the smoke could choke us." John said, shoving things aside inside the duffle in a frantic search for the Holy water. He cried in triumph when he finally found it. Dean took an involuntary couple of steps aside. "Lets see if this works…" John muttered, squirting some water on a nearing golem.

"Did it work?" Sam, who had his back turned to his father, asked. Dean looked over his shoulder.

"Yeah. It's wet now." He said. Sam rolled his eyes. John cried out in frustration.

"Boys, start heading back to the ladder. We're not prepared for this." he instructed.

"We could try salt." Dean suggested, "You've got a few canisters, right?"

"Dude, this entire place is full of salt!" Sam said.

"Wouldn't hurt to try." Dean retorted.

"It would if they knock you to the ground." Sam quipped, garnering a glare from his older brother. Sam looked innocently at him and Dean rolled his eyes.

They started inching their way back towards the ladder when Dean let out a cry, doubling over and dropping both his rifle and his flashlight. Sam was quick to support him, trying to help him back up, but Dean just shook his head, gasping for breath and choking on the dust.

A few more shots were heard as John tried to supply some cover. And then something happened. One of the golems that was getting far too close for comfort turn into a pile of rubble. Sam looked questioningly at his father, who seemed just as surprised.

"How'd you do that?" Sam asked.

"Hell if I know." John said, checking his gun. He reloaded it. "But if it happened once…" he said, leaving the sentence hanging. Sam looked at Dean, patting him on the back as the older brother coughed, straining to breathe. Dean dropped to his knees now, the pressure the Leech exerted on his head and chest unbearable. Sam crouched next to him, offering him his bottled water. Dean shook his head, but Sam insisted. Drinking slowly, Dean was rather surprised to find the cool liquid chilled his aching throat, settled comfortably in his stomach, with no threat of making another, quick, appearance.

He rested his head in his hands. The additional shots coming from his father's direction resonated in the large space, increasing his headache. He turned his head away from the sound, turned his eyes away from the harsh light of the flashlight.

And then a thought occurred to him. He reached out a shaky hand, turning his flashlight off. Sam quirked a brow.

"Turn yours off, too." Dean said.

"But…"

"Just… please," Dean said wearily, and Sam obliged.

"Dad, turn the light off!" Dean cried out.

"What?"

"Do it!" Dean ordered, leaving no room to argue. John turned to face him, his expression lost in the shadows as the light from his flashlight was pointed at Dean. Dean grunted, grimacing, and turned his head away, protecting his eyes with his arm. "Just turn it off! You're making it worse, just turn it off!" Dean cried.

"Dean? You okay?" John's gruff voice was laced in worry.

"Just shut the damn thing off!" Dean choked. Hesitantly, John complied. He cocked his gun again, but couldn't see a damn thing, not even his own hands.

"This is a mistake," he muttered.

"Just listen!" Dean said urgently, hand searching blindly for Sam's water bottle. All three Winchesters stopped everything and strained their ears.

It was difficult to hear anything past the rushing of blood in their ears. Cold sweat trickled down their backs, making them shiver. John's finger stayed on the trigger, even Sam reached for his own gun, his heart pounding in his chest.

Nothing.

They heard absolutely nothing. Well, other than Dean's labored gasps.

And those golems were too big to be this silent. Which meant…

"Well, I'll be damned." John said, for the second time in as many days, a dimpled grin spreading on his face. He turned in the direction of his sons, though he couldn't be a hundred percent sure he was facing them in the complete darkness that blanketed them. "How'd you know?" John asked.

Dean wiped his brow, staggering to his feet with Sam's help. The pressure wasn't going away. He wasn't going to be able to take it for long. "They kept coming from your side. My side was dark, it was completely open, and nothing came. I just figured…" he shrugged.

"Well, either of you see anything?" John asked.

"No, sir." Answered both boys in unison. John ran a hand over his face, exhaling.

"Great." He muttered. "Well, just stay put till your eyes adjust. Don't move anywhere." John instructed, "And don't you dare separate, you hear?"

"Yes, sir." Was the reply he received from both sons.

* * *

It took them a fairly long time to get their eyes adjusted to the dark. When they did, John scowled at what he saw. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped at his eldest, who was sitting on the ground with his back resting against one of the stony golems, its hands outstretched and ready to attack. Dean looked innocently at his father.

"What?" he asked. John ran his hand over his face, shaking his head and looking heavenwards.

"God help me…" he muttered to himself. "Get up!" he ordered his son. Dean grimaced, but slowly got to his feet again.

"So, Dad," Sam piped in, "you know, before, when you said we weren't prepared for this?" he asked, garnering his father's eyes on him. "You were so totally right." Sam finished, looking around.

The large cave they were in had many tunnels, spidering in every direction. It seemed like a maze. _That just couldn't be a good thing_.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked. "Which way?" John sighed, then cursed, kicking the ground in frustration, and in doing so, sending a puff of dust in the air that sent his oldest coughing again. Sam reached in his pocket, taking out a bandana and offering it to his brother.

"I'm not gonna put your booger hotel on my face!" Dean made a disgusted face and Sam rolled his eyes, not that his brother seemed to notice.

"It's clean. I brought it in case we'll need a tourniquet." He said. Dean hesitated a second longer, before reaching for the bandana and tying it around his mouth and nose. It didn't help much with his breathing, but it seemed to make Sammy happy, so Dean kept it on.

"I don't know how long it'll take to check them all." John admitted, cursing again.

"We have to start somewhere." Sam said. "Anyone for eeny-meeny-miny-mo?" he suggested. That was the stupidest idea John could think of. They ended up doing just that.

"You okay there, tiger?" John asked as Dean legged behind. Dean didn't answer. His father slowed his pace, walking alongside him. "You want to rest a little?" John suggested. Dean hesitated a second, but then gave a slight nod.

Sam sat beside his brother, offering him another drink, which Dean refused. "You know, I kinda have a bad feeling about this," Sam whispered. Dean scratched his head tiredly. He looked up quickly. Sam gave a slight nod, he had heard it too.

"You just had to open your mouth, didn't you?" Dean accused, turning his flashlight on. Sam winced, turning away quickly as the strong light momentarily blinded all three Winchesters. When their eyes adjusted to the light, they looked around them. And cursed.

"What is this? I feel like I'm in a freaking Arabian Nights' tale, minus the half-naked chicks!" Dean snapped.

"Language." John said, slowly taking out his machete. Dean look incredulously at him.

"We're surrounded by freaking walking skeletons, and it's my language you're worried about?" he demanded. John spared him an angry glare before launching himself at the closest of the six skeletons. Fighting undead skeletons. That was… new.

The dead, or rather, undead skeletons weren't nearly fast enough for John and Sam, and not five minutes later, a pile of crushed bones lay scattered on the ground. Dean shone his light farther ahead in the tunnel. More skeletons. Many more. Some of them armed.

"What the hell is this place?" Dean muttered. "I vote we take another way." He said, turning the light back off as he started doubling back. His father and brother hesitated for a moment, but quickly followed him down another tunnel. "Hey, Sammy, think we'll find us a genie?" Dean asked his little brother with a smirk on his face, "'Cause, dude, I have like, the best three wishes…" he added, chuckling.

"Yeah? You're gonna ask for a sense of humor?" Sam asked. Dean winced.

"Man, I'm having the life sucked out of me, but that? That hurt." He said, punching Sammy in the arm.

"Ow! Dean!" Sam hissed, and John told them both to keep their cake hole shut. They kept walking in silence for another few minutes, until Dean just couldn't resist.

"Seriously, Sammy, what story do you suppose we gonna find ourselves in next?" he asked, "I bet it's the one with that huge round rock that came from that tunnel right behind them, you know, like a bowling ball, when they tried to get to that gold statue?" he nudged Sam in his ribs.

"Dean, read a book for once, okay? The rolling stone thing was from Indiana Johns!" Sam hissed. Dean scratched his head, and then smirked. That was a totally cool movie.

Not long after that, they came to a crossroads where five different tunnels met. Dean never even hesitated; choosing the one to his far left. John stopped him.

"Wait,"

"It's that way." Dean said simply.

"What is?"

"The scepter. I know where it is." Dean said. John raised a suspicious brow.

"How?" he demanded. Dean shrugged.

"I just do."

TBC

A/N: Imho, things are only going to get better with this story, or what's left of it. The next chapter is the 'big one'. Reviews might help me update sooner... So please review.


	20. And the Ground Shook

A/N: This chapter's gonna be a little longer than usual, because I only plan on one more chapter. Please, please review this one, as it is the biggest, most important event of the story, and I really want to know what you guys thought about it. Thanks.

Warnings: Language.

Chapter Twenty – And The Ground Shook

_Not long after that, they came to a crossroads where five different tunnels met. Dean never even hesitated; choosing the one to his far left. John stopped him._

_"Wait,"_

_"It's that way." Dean said simply._

_"What is?"_

_"The scepter. I know where it is." Dean said. John raised a suspicious brow._

_"How?" he demanded. Dean shrugged._

_"I just do."_

* * *

It's powerful, and Dean can feel it. He's figured it out years ago. He used to think everyone could feel things the way he did. He used to think it was natural, normal. It took a few hunts for him to realize his father and brother couldn't feel things the way he did; that they couldn't sense supernatural power from a distance the way he could. 

There was such power buried here, it practically made the walls resonate all around them, but no one else seemed to see or feel it the way Dean did.

He led the way, growing stronger, more confident the closer he got, bolstered by the knowledge that it will all be over soon.

The tunnels were cool, dark and dry, but not too dry. Yellow moss covered some of the walls and parts of the ceiling. The place smelled of rot and decay, and Dean could feel the chill in his bones, feel the threat. The danger.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Sam asked, his voice resonating in the darkness.

"I'm sure," Dean said, and then stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "Why?" he asked. Sam shrugged, looking agitatedly around.

"I don't know," he said, "it's just… I have a really bad feeling about this place." Sam said and Dean rolled his eyes.

"You do realize you just jinxed us, right?" he asked, trying to make his little brother smile. But Sam was too nervous. He was feeling it, too, Dean realized.

"I'm serious, man. This place… it feels… wrong. Evil." Sam licked his lips, looking at his father. "Maybe we should rethink this."

John scrubbed his face, readjusting his gun, and looked at his oldest. There was something in Dean's face John hasn't seen in a long time, something that made the father ache. Fear. Uncertainty. Helplessness.

This was Dean's last chance.

But not Sammy's.

John glanced at his youngest, hesitating for a moment.

"All right," the eldest Winchester said, his mind made up. "Sammy, I want you to double back. Get out of here. Wait for us outside." He ordered. Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"What?" Sam asked, unsure he'd heard right.

"You heard me. I want you out of here." John said authoritatively.

"I'm not leaving you guys alone!" Sam shrieked.

"You are, if I say so!" John snapped.

"No! I wanna help!" Sam insisted.

"Sammy," Dean's voice was gentle, soft, "I think the best way for you to help is to wait outside, okay?" Dean asked, "I'm serious, Sammy, I want you out, or we're not going any farther." Dean said as Sam opened his mouth to protest. "I'm not kidding here, Sam, get out!" Dean said firmly as Sam tried to protest again. Sam scowled.

"Right. Because the last few times we separated ended up just peachy." He said sarcastically. Dean shook his head, but John bit his lip. Sam did have a point. They had to stick together. He wanted both his sons close.

Seeing his father hesitate made Dean even more firm. "You need to leave, Sammy."

"Who died and made you the boss of me?" Sam protested. "You don't give the orders around here." He said, looking at his father. Dean simply crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.

They kept arguing, each refusing to surrender, refusing to listen. Sam wanted to stay, Dean wanted him to leave, and John was torn between the two; wanting Sammy to be safe, but reluctant to send him off on his own. But as soon as Dean pulled the weary, exhausted card, leaning against the wall of the cave, resting his head on his arm with his eyes closed, Sam caved and turned back.

John stared at his oldest for a long moment as Dean still leaned against the wall.

"You okay?" the worried father asked. Dean gave a slight nod, pushing away from the wall.

"I just want this to be over already." Dean said wearily.

"Me to, kiddo. Me too." John said, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Ready to go?" Dean nodded.

They started walking again, deeper into the cave, and John could feel himself developing an ulcer. _Was it a smart idea to let Sam leave on his own? Maybe we should've escorted him back? No, he's a man. He's a professional, he knows how to handle himself. And still… maybe we should go back with him, just to make sure…_

John glanced over his shoulder every now and then, still hesitating. Until he realized Dean kept very close to him, much closer than he'd usually allow himself to walk by his father. Dean was scared. Dean was the one facing the unknown here. Dean needed him more right now._ Sammy will be fine. Oh, God, please let Sammy be fine_…

John cleared his throat, garnering his son's attention. "You know, uh… I was thinking," he said, running a hand through his hair. He couldn't look in Dean's eyes, he just couldn't. "Maybe Sammy was right. Maybe you should go back, too. Let me do this. I'll get the scepter. There's no way she can tell…" John started but let the sentence hang as Dean shook his head.

"I can't go back." He said. John gave him a small smile.

"Sure you can." He said calmly, "Go back. You and your brother wait for me by the car. I can get the scepter. No one'll know…"

"No, Dad, I mean I can't." Dean stopped him again. John frowned. Dean smiled that smile of his that said 'I'm so screwed', and John could feel his blood pressure rising. "Even if I wanted to…" Dean shrugged, shaking his head a little, "I can't." he said. "I can't turn back."

"What are you talking about?" John demanded. Dean pressed his hand gingerly over the symbol on his chest, smiling bitterly.

"I can't…" he shook his head again, looking into John's eyes. "It won't let me." Dean swallowed, trying to keep the smile on his face. "Every time we double back… Dad, it hurts so bad I can't breathe. We have to move forward. We have to finish it, Dad, or..." Dean didn't finish the sentence. He was tired, tired of being in pain, tired of being tired. One way or the other, this was going to end. John scrutinized his son for a long moment before nodding.

"Then let's stop wasting time." He said.

* * *

"Well, that's definitely not something you see every day." John said, peering out from the large, oval shaped hole in the rocks. Dean sat leaned against a large stone pillar, eyes closed, catching his breathe. He was exhausted. He just wanted to sleep; close his eyes and sleep and wake up and realize it had all just been a nightmare. That this wasn't real. That this wasn't really happening to him. 

They had been going downhill for a while, and then started climbing back up. Going uphill was far more exerting than it should've been. John insisted that he'd drink more. Dean figured drinking would probably help him keep sharp, but he was just too damn tired to reach for the water bottle.

The air was different here. Damper. Easier to breathe somehow, without all that dust. The ground was covered with rocks, gravel and smooth pebbles. Little beetles and ants scattered around searching for food in between the large pillars, stalagmites, and stalactites protruding every now and then. John walked headfirst into one when he was too busy making sure Dean was still on his feet to look where he was going. _That was going to leave a mark_. Some of the rocks were covered in soft, red moss. Most of them were smooth and large enough to sit or lie on.

It was colder here, too, and both Winchesters found themselves shivering lightly. And once they got where they needed to get… Well, it wasn't exactly what they'd expected. Whatever power lay in this place was so strong, so palpable, that even John could feel it now. There was a ring of faded protection symbols. And if you looked past that… well, that's when things started to get interesting.

How light got in there, neither Winchester had a clue, but the place was lit by a soft blue light; like the light of a full moon shining in the desert. The light illuminated a rather large pool of dark water. Somewhere towards the farther end of the rancid water was a slightly elevated ground made of rocks, pebbles and fallen pillars. There was a small, somewhat flat rock that almost looked like a pedestal standing crookedly near the middle of the elevated land. And on top of that…

The damn scepter looked so ordinary and unremarkable it was almost disappointing. Just a sixteen inch long wooden rod. Well, that's all John could see from where he was standing anyway. Looking away from the scepter, John turned to his son.

"Ready to get this thing over with, champ?" he asked. Dean nodded lightly. He looked back the way they came. The faded symbols shone a faint blue, but Dean guessed his father couldn't see that. Or anything else that just didn't feel right. "Dean?" John asked when Dean showed no intention to move.

"What if Bobby was right?" Dean asked all of a sudden, catching his father off guard.

"What?"

"Maybe we shouldn't do this?" Dean didn't look up at his Dad, "I mean, someone obviously bothered enough to protect this thing, what if…"

"Dean, don't." John stopped him before he could go any further. The eldest Winchester crouched next to his son. "It's okay." John said, trying to sound far more convincing than he felt. "It's gonna be okay." He promised. At that, Dean looked up at him.

"But what if it's not?" he asked in a soft voice, a bitter smile on his lips. "What if I take this thing, and, I don't know, release a demon or something?" Dean demanded, his voice cracking a little. "What if people die because of it?"

"Don't worry about it." John said. Dean looked incredulous.

"How can I not?" he demanded, shrugging John's hand away from his shoulder. John lifted Dean's chin, making him look him in the eye.

"You just worry about the Leech, okay? Let me worry about the rest." He said. Dean looked at his father for a long moment, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He was the first to look away. "Dean?"

"I can't." Dean said in a small voice.

"Yes, you can." John said firmly. "Listen to me, we've come this far, you bet your ass you can, you hear me?" _This was it. The last chance of reason. If that didn't work, he'll order Dean to take it. And if that didn't work, well, not that he really wanted to do it, but he could still kick his son's ass if he needed to_.

Dean exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, and turned, glancing at the scepter. His father didn't see it, that much was obvious. "Dad,"

"Don't you give up, you hear me?" John demanded, pulling Dean to his feet. "Whatever it is, I'll take care of it, okay? I'll clean up the mess." John said, and quickly added, "And you can bet your ass you're gonna be right there, cleaning it up with me. And cleaning the car. And the house. And whatever else I tell you, you got it?" Dean didn't meet his eyes, and John's heart was racing.

"But what if Bobby's right, Dad? What if it's not worth it?" Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked over his father's shoulder at the twinkling lights his old man didn't seem to be able to see, as he felt the power resonate all around him, nearly suffocating him.

"You don't listen to Bobby, you listen to me, understand?" John said, a little harsher than he'd meant to. Dean shook his head.

"You really can't see that, can you?" he asked, his voice breaking as he jutted his chin toward the shimmering pool and the near blinding light surrounding the scepter. John frowned, looking in the direction Dean was pointing.

"What?" he asked. Dean ran both his hands through his short hair, entwining his fingers behind his neck. "See what, Dean?" he demanded. Dean stared at him for a long moment, and then gave him that smirk again, the smirk that foretold trouble was coming. He gave a small, resigned nod and started for the water's edge.

John caught him by the elbow.

"What's wrong?" John asked worriedly. Because there was something wrong. It was written clearly across his firstborn's face. Dean smiled at him.

"It's okay, Dad." He said, "This is for Sammy, right? This is going to save Sammy." Dean said, and John's heart skipped a beat. Something was wrong. Something was so very wrong, and for some reason, he couldn't see it. It unnerved him. Hell, it scared the crap out of him. The way Dean was talking, it was almost as if…

"Dean,"

"You're right." Dean stopped him. "We can't give up now." He said confidently. "We'll clean up the mess later. This is for Sammy."

John didn't want to let go of his son's arm. He didn't realize he had until Dean was already by the murky pool. John's heart was pounding so fast it ached. Dean spared a glimpse over his shoulder, sending his father another reassuring smile which only managed to do the opposite.

Dean hesitated for a moment as he reached the water, glancing at his father one last time. He considered taking his boots and socks off, to keep them dry, but he had no idea what lay under the water, and he didn't really want to find out.

John took a couple of steps forward so he could see better. His palms were sweaty, the cold making him shiver.

Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped in the water. He hissed as the cold bit his flesh. The water was freezing, sapping whatever warmth he had left right out of him. He waddled along, feeling the sharp rocks under his feet, and thanked God he decided to keep his shoes on.

His teeth were clattering now, as the water reached his thighs. His muscles screamed in protest, willing to give in. Dean glanced back at his father, hands wrapped around his body in a weak attempt to keep warm, to keep going. John took a step closer, smiling, nodding Dean on. It might have been reassuring if it weren't for… No. He couldn't think about this. Not now.

If he were honest with himself, Dean would admit that he was scared. He tried his best not to freak out and turn around. He couldn't turn back anymore, and he knew it. His heart was racing a mile a minute, his mouth dry. _It's for Sammy_, he reminded himself, _for Sammy_. Dean repeated that in his head like a mantra.

Thigh deep was as deep as it got, though now that he was out of the water, it was somehow even colder.

Well, not too much left to be done now, Dean figured. Nothing to do now but reach out and grab the damn scepter. Just stretch his arm, pick it up. That's all. _So why was it so damn hard to do?_ Dean swallowed hard, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He was shaking, and not only from the cold.

_That's it. Moment of truth_.

Dean reached out, eyes closed, and wrapped his fingers around the Scepter of Amara.

He held his breath, body tense, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Dean opened his eyes, released his breath. He glanced back at his father, but couldn't see him in the dark, blinded by the light of the scepter.

He looked at the scepter in his hand.

Just a scepter. A piece of wood.

It felt warm in his hand. Warm and fragile. And dusty, and a little bit sticky. _Gross_. He looked at his father again, even though he couldn't quite see him, and smiled, holding the scepter out for his Dad to see, before turning back.

It happened so fast he didn't even realize it was happening at first. The pain was so sudden, so fierce that it didn't register all at once.

A gut wrenching scream resonated around and it took Dean a while to realize it was him doing the screaming.

Dean gasped as he fell to the ground, bucking, twisting and writhing in pain. It almost felt like there was someone there, attacking him, ripping him apart from the inside out.

* * *

John cried out, his stomach lurching, as he launched forward towards his son, trying to rush to his aid. 

He slammed forcibly against something he couldn't even see. Some sort of invisible barrier, and how cliché was that? But it was like a solid wall, stopping him from helping his son.

A solid wall, made of nothing but _air_.

* * *

Dean was on his back now, convulsing and screaming, and it was so much worse than anything the Leech has ever done to him. So much worse than anything that's ever been done to him put together. It felt like his life was being sucked out of him in the most painful way.

* * *

John was screaming now, yelling and screaming in rage, trying to push past _air_ that didn't allow him passage to his suffering child. And then John froze. 

Just froze, staring in horror.

Because there **_was_** something coming out of Dean.

Soft, blue light, illuminating from the inside of Dean's chest, all the way up from chest to throat, coming in wisps out of his mouth as Dean screamed himself hoarse. Soft blue light shining from the inside of his skull, flowing out of Dean's nose as he fought for breath.

John had never in his life fought more fiercely than he did now, fighting the barrier that was keeping him from helping his son. He pushed and kicked and yelled, but the air might as well have been solid. He screamed in frustration, trying to force his way through the condensed air.

Wisps of blue light left Dean's body, hovering just above him for a moment, and it was almost beautiful. It could have been beautiful if it hadn't been so goddamn terrifying. The light lingered for a few seconds before it started traveling up and slowly fading away.

And then the ground shook.

The light left Dean's body, _and the ground shook_.

Literally.

It shook violently all around Dean, rippling, as if made of water.

Dean passed out, the scepter rolling away from his limp fingers. It kept rolling on the rock covered ground until it was stopped by a pebble.

The barrier holding John at bay was gone as soon as the scepter rolled away from his son's hand, as soon as the light faded and the ground stopped shaking, catching John unprepared, and he actually stumbled for a moment until he regained his balance.

Once the barrier was gone, nothing could stop the distraught father from getting to his unconscious child. John started running. He ran towards his too still son, splashing around as he crossed the icy water, cursing as it slowed him down.

He fell to his knees next to Dean, shaky hands looking desperately for a pulse he couldn't find. Fighting back the burning tears and rising panic, John tried again, feeling himself lose control and start to cry in relief as he found the weak thumping of his son's heart. John quickly wiped his tears away, listening for Dean's breathing. It was labored, but Dean was breathing, and there wasn't a sweeter sound than that in the entire world.

John pulled his boy to him, cradling his head in his arms. Dean was cold to the touch, but it wasn't too surprising considering the temperature of the water and the air around them. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether it was safe to move Dean around or not. Dean's eyes fluttered, but didn't open.

"Dean? You with me, kiddo?" John asked urgently. A whimper was his only answer, but for the moment, it was enough. John ran his hands over his son's body, trying to figure out if Dean was hurt. He pushed Dean's shirt up and felt a lump of tears stuck in his throat, choking him.

The Leech was gone.

John hesitated a moment longer, before reaching for the scepter. He touched it gingerly, quickly pulling his hand away, but nothing happened. He touched it again. Still nothing. He turned it over in his hands, studying it. Nothing. So he put it back in its place. The Leech was gone now, no reason to take the scepter away from the symbols protecting it, if there was even anything left to protect.

He slipped one arm under Dean's knees, the other under his head, and lifted him, cursing, because Dean may have lost weight recently, but he was still damn heavy. It didn't matter though. John needed to get his son to safety, and nothing was going to stop him.

TBC

A/A/N: No, it wasn't Dean's soul sucked out of him, in case you were wondering. This is my attempt to explain why Dean, the firstborn, isn't the one with the powers and supernatural abilities. More will be explained later on. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. This epic story is nearing it's conclusion, and I'd very much appreciate you letting me know what you think about it, so please review.


	21. Rebuild

A/N: Ffn is acting up again, I hope this works... Anyway, this is the last chapter. Please, please review and tell me what you think.

Warnings: Language.

Chapter Twenty One – Rebuild

_"Dean? You with me, kiddo?" John asked urgently. A whimper was his only answer, but for the moment, it was enough. John ran his hands over his son's body, trying to figure out if Dean was hurt. He pushed Dean's shirt up and felt a lump of tears stuck in his throat, choking him._

_The Leech was gone._

_John hesitated a moment longer, before reaching for the scepter. He touched it gingerly, quickly pulling his hand away, but nothing happened. He touched it again. Still nothing. He turned it over in his hands, studying it. Nothing. So he put it back in its place. The Leech was gone now, no reason to take the scepter away from the symbols protecting it, if there was even anything left to protect._

_He slipped one arm under Dean's knees, the other under his head, and lifted him, cursing, because Dean may have lost weight recently, but he was still damn heavy. It didn't matter though. John needed to get his son to safety, and nothing was going to stop him._

* * *

Half way back to the car Dean started stirring, and John put him down, bringing the bottle of water to his son's lips and coaxing him to take a small sip. Dean coughed, opening his eyes half-mast as he took inventory of himself. 

He hurt everywhere, but the pain was fading. There was something missing though. Dean's lost something, and now there was this hollowness, this emptiness inside him. He forced his eyes open, looking around, and recognized nothing.

"Dad?" Dean asked hesitantly, hoarsely, and started coughing. He grimaced at the pain in his chest.

"Dean? Are you okay? How are you feeling?" John asked worriedly. Dean licked his lips, tried to moisten his dry mouth.

"What happened?" he asked in a weak, gravelly voice he didn't recognize as his own. Everything was different, yet somehow familiar. He'd been here before, or at least he thought he had. This looked like the tunnel they passed through on their way to the scepter. Only it was darker now. It didn't send his senses on edge anymore. He couldn't feel the power he had felt before.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe, by touching the scepter, by taking it from its place, he had released something… Dean's heart started racing. "Did we let something out?" he asked anxiously, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, "Is it a demon?" John pushed him back down.

"Stay down, son. You need to rest."

"No. No, I'm okay." Dean said, but then the world got all smudgy again, and he was really getting tired of it doing that. "What happened, Dad? What did we do?" he insisted. Something was wrong, something was missing. Everything felt… different. There was this feeling, down in his gut, that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. John stroked his cheek gently with him thumb.

"Nothing, buddy. Bobby was just being paranoid. We left the scepter where we found it. Apparently, we didn't need to take it away for it to work." John said, "It's still protected, Dean, it's okay. You need to rest now." He added. Dean closed his eyes for a second, before opening them again. There was no sign of supernatural activity. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything.

"Are you sure?" Dean pushed. "You sure I didn't activate it or something? That I didn't…"

"I'm sure." John stopped him. "I'm sure." He repeated. "You just… you got it." John said, scratching his beard, "I guess the Leech was more literal than we thought." He suggested, "The deal was for you to get that scepter for the witch. And you did, you got it. It's done." Dean blinked owlishly at his father for a long moment, before scrambling his shirt up and trying to take a look at his chest. All he managed to do was make himself dizzy.

"It's gone?" he asked, making sure. John gave him a small smile, which died on his lips as Dean frowned.

"What's wrong?" the older hunter asked. Dean shook his head slightly, closing his eyes again. Something was still wrong. Something was missing. It felt like someone had reached inside him and… "Dean?" John sounded worried.

For a moment, Dean just lay there on the cold ground. _Why?_ He couldn't help but wonder, _why would she do that? What did she get by doing this? Did she somehow get it for herself? Whatever it is, was, that made him able to feel those things, did this thing enable her to get that for herself?_

That was one hell of a price to pay. Everything he was, his hunting skills, his everyday decisions, they all depended on that gut feeling he had, that freaky sixth sense that told him _it's safe_ or _there's something here_ or _Sammy's in danger_. It was gone now. And it left him hollow and cold inside.

But it was okay, he figured. It's the price he had to pay to keep his brother safe, the price he had to pay to make sure he would still be there to take care of his little brother, to protect him. A price he paid for his family, and he will never regret that.

This hollow feeling inside, the pain of losing something that's always been there, it didn't matter. His family was safe now, and as long as he had his family, he had something to fill that emptiness with. As long as he had Sam and his Dad with him, it wouldn't hurt.

"Dean? What is it?" his father repeated. Dean turned on his side, trying to prop himself up to an awkward sitting position.

"Nothing." Dean said, wincing. His mouth was dry, his throat constricted. "We have anymore water?" he asked. John was quick to find the water bottle, intending to hold it to his son's lips, but Dean just took the bottle away from him with a shaky hand. "I got it." He said, taking a few tiny sips, before trying to get to his feet.

"Whoa, wait a minute young man," John tried to stop him, but Dean just used the rocky wall to push himself to his feet.

"'M okay." He said, forcing his eyes to stay open. The pain was fading slowly, but so was consciousness. Dean felt tired and heavy. "I can do it. Walk." He said, raising a hand to stop his father's protest. "I really don't think I can climb up though." He added. "That way, right?" Dean pointed and started walking on wobbly feet. John just sighed, shaking his head, and followed his stubborn son.

He didn't let Dean walk on his own, though, and snaked one hand around Dean's waist, holding him up. Dean managed walking without any real assistance for about two minutes. By the time father and son reached the rope ladder, Dean was leaning heavily on John, his head drooping against his father's chest, eyes barely open.

"Dad!" Sam's head appeared from the gap in the ceiling, the boy looking frightened and more then a little worried. "Dad, you okay?"

John was too busy to answer his youngest. He made quick work of tying the rope around Dean's waist, checking the knots, before holding Dean firmly and climbing the first couple of rungs as Sammy sent tiny grains of sand and dust down on top of them.

"Sammy, get in the car, put it in reverse so it'll pull us up and out of here." John cried out to his youngest, entangling himself in the ropes while keeping a firm grip on his oldest. Dean was conscious enough to tangle one arm in the rope and hold onto his father.

John's heart was racing a mile a minute as he heard the truck door open and close and the engine roaring to life. Holding onto both his son and the ladder as the ladder was being pulled out the hole wasn't easy, especially as they dangled dangerously in the air. Sam stopped the car before they were out of the hole, but that was just as well, because with all the rocking, John wasn't sure they'd make it through without being dragged across the bumpy ceiling, and there was always the chance the friction will tear the ropes.

Sam's head reappeared in the hole as he peered into the darkness of the caves. "Dad?"

"It's okay, Sammy." John said, trying to sound reassuring as he dangled in midair, holding onto his half-conscious son. "Try to pull us out, we can't climb up." John said, "And be careful." He added.

"Is Dean…?"

"'M fine Sammy." Dean muttered weakly, "This thing gonna keep swaying like this, I'm gonna puke all over Dad." He added with a groan.

Sam heaved them up, helping John get Dean out first. Once out of the hole, Dean stumbled on his hands and knees, crushing to the ground, exhausted, as his father climbed out of the hole.

"Dad, what happened?" Sam asked anxiously. "There was a really strong earthquake just a few minutes ago. Did you feel it? I was so nervous, I thought the whole thing was going to cave in or something…" Sam was rambling, a sure sign that he was scared.

"Just help me get Dean to the car, Sammy." John said, brushing dust and dirt out of his hair.

"Is he okay? What's wrong?" Sam asked nervously. "You got it, didn't you? You got the scepter, right?"

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean said weakly, trying to push himself up, but failing miserably. He still managed his cocky smirk. "We got it. 'Ts over."

"Dad?" Sam turned to his father, unwilling to allow himself any hope until Dean's words were reaffirmed by his father. The older hunter gave a slight nod.

"Just help me get your brother to the car, alright?" he repeated, and Sam sprung into action.

Dean's legs refused to support him. His vision tunneled. He held onto his father and brother like a drowning man held onto a floating log. Between them, Sam and John managed to get Dean in the back seat of John's truck, Sam getting in with him, Dean's head in his lap.

"Dean, hey, stay with me, okay?" Sam asked as Dean's eyes rolled back. "Dad?" Sam's voice hitched. John scrubbed his face. He was tired, exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a nice, soft bed and sleep for a week, knowing both his boys were safe and within his reach. But right now, he had to get Dean checked out. He had to get him to a hospital.

"The Leech is gone." The eldest Winchester told his youngest somberly. "But it's possible it attacked him again before it… disappeared."

"We're getting him to a hospital?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's slurred protest. John nodded, looking around. The sky was gray with the nearing dawn. The national park was still, with no visitors or rangers anywhere near them. Heavy clouds nearing ominously from the south, wind blowing dust and sand everywhere. Closing the back door and circling the car, John got into the driver's seat. The car was still running. He put it in gear, driving away. Away from Death Valley National Park, away from this place and the sight of his boy writhing on the cold ground as something was ripped out of him, causing the earth to shake.

Something was ripped out of his child, and it rocked the freaking earth. Literally.

It was too mind-boggling to comprehend, so John decided not to think about it. Not yet. Not before he knew Dean was alright and had at least twelve hours of sleep, a long shower and a good meal.

Something was forced out of his son by this scepter, and it made the ground move.

Jesus Christ.

"Dean? Dean, stay with me! Dean!" John glanced in the rear view mirror, his heart in his throat. He relaxed a little, his lip quirking upwards at the colorful curse Dean bestowed on his younger brother. John decided to let it slip. Just this once.

* * *

"And other than that, he's fine?" John asked for the umpteenth time, making sure. The doctor sighed. 

"Yes, sir." He said, readjusting his glasses farther up on his nose, "The IV should get him hydrated quickly. His blood work shows some electrolyte imbalance, but the results are much better now than they had been when he came in. In time, he should be fine." The doctor reassured. John ran his hands through his hair, letting out a breath of relief.

"When will we be able to take him home?" he asked. The doctor hesitated.

"Well, considering it's a recurring problem, I want to have him admitted. Forty eight hours at the very least." He said.

"But you said he was okay!" Sam chimed in.

The ride to the hospital had been extremely long, even at the breakneck speed John was driving. Sam was having more and more trouble keeping Dean conscious and alert, finally settling on conscious. Sam nearly freaked out when Dean closed his eyes and wouldn't open them again, relaxing a little when Dean told him he was too tired to keep them open. The slur in Dean's words was getting much heavier, and Sam grabbed his big brother's hand.

"Fine," he had said, "Just squeeze my hand, okay? You can close your eyes as long as you keep holding my hand." Sam insisted.

"Dude, you're such a girl." Dean smirked, eyes closed, and yelped and cursed when Sam squeezed his hand hard enough to bruise.

Dean was whisked away the moment they got to the hospital, and it was a nerve wracking two hours before his father and brother were allowed to see him. That was almost nine hours ago. Dean has yet regained consciousness. Another case of severe exhaustion.

Dean was hooked up to an IV, a nasal canula helping him breathe. They've run several blood tests, and after hearing of Dean's liver and kidney problems, he had undergone another extensive set of tests. The results were better than John dared hope. Exhaustion, severe dehydration, borderline anemia. The doctor had warned them of possible complications, but said chances were Dean would be alright once he had time to gather his strength. Dean was having some difficulty breathing, but the nasal canula helped fix that.

Sam looked at his pale brother, then back at the doctor. "You said he's fine!" Sam accused.

"Not yet." The doctor corrected, "But he will be." He finished quickly.

"Why do you want to keep him here if it's just dehydration and exhaustion?" John asked.

"Well, I'm guessing he's a very stubborn, independent young man, can't stay put for long." The doctor said, stuffing the chart he was holding under his armpit. "Right now, what he needs most is rest. If he can't be trusted to rest at home, we can make sure he sleeps long enough for his body to recover." A hint of a smile ghosted the doctor's lips. John gave a slight nod.

"He's not gonna like it." Sam muttered. The doctor exchanged glances with the eldest Winchester.

"We've actually gotten quite a few complements on the food here." The doctor said with a smile before he left the three Winchesters to themselves.

* * *

Dean was more than itching to get out of the hospitals. Three more hours left to his forty eight hour stay, and if he had been given a choice in the matter, he would've been long gone by now. But he wasn't given one. Even after the sedatives wore off, and he reminded his father of the fact that he was, after all, over eighteen and was legally an adult, both his father and brother promised him hell if he didn't suck it up and stayed in bed. By the looks of them, they meant it, too. 

"And there's nothing else wrong with him? His kidneys? Anything… new?" John insisted. Two days later, and he still couldn't get the image of that blue…something being torn out of his son's body. The news reported a 5.9 earthquake.

"There's nothing wrong, not that we can tell." The doctor said exasperatedly. They've been through this before. "You still need bed rest, young man, for at least another couple of days. And then you're gonna have to take it easy. No going to the gym for at least another week, and even then, I'd take it slow." He said, looking at Dean now.

"You sure you don't need some more tests? He did pass out a few times…" Dean glowered at his father. This fussing thing was getting irritating.

"Dad, would you stop?" he snapped. "I've done my best pin-cushion impersonation, I don't need any more tests. There's nothing…" he left that sentence hanging, because he couldn't say it. That he was all right, that there was nothing wrong. He couldn't say it and mean it. Not yet. Because yes, the pain was gone, and he was feeling stronger, but there was something else gone, too.

The emptiness inside him didn't go away. Whatever the witch had taken from him… it changed him somehow. He didn't know how, or why, but he felt different. The world seemed different. He couldn't immediately tell when danger was near. She had taken it from him. He was just like everyone else now. He wasn't special anymore, and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

"Mr. Winchester, nothing I've seen so far indicates there could be something wrong with your son. Is there any reason for you to be so anxious? Is there something else I need to know?" the doctor asked. John bit his lip, but shook his head lightly, running a hand over his beard.

"I just want to be a hundred percent sure." He said tiredly. The doctor turned to Dean again.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, a slight smile on his lips.

"Tired." Dean admitted, "And a little worried." He added. The doctor frowned.

"Worried?" He exchanged a glance with the eldest Winchester.

"Well, you told him I have to stay in bed." Dean said seriously, looking at the doctor, "Now he's gonna take it literally and make me stay in bed and watch daytime TV." Dean smirked. "Seriously, doc, you gotta give me something for the pain…" but the doctor just rolled his eyes and turned to leave the room as John rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "No, really, come on, hook me up with some good stuff." Dean cried after the doctor, "Seriously, man, have you ever _watched_ daytime TV?"

THE END

A/N: I might add an epilogue. There's still a twist I haven't used… (insert evil grin here) but that's up to you.


	22. Epilogue

A/N: First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you who reviewed and/or put my story on their favorite or alert list. You guys are the reason I kept writing this story, so thanks y'all!

Second, I've gotten a few requests for a sequel. I'm sorry to say, there won't be a sequel. As I explained to some of you, Dean doesn't seem to have any powers in the show, so he obviously never got them back.

There was another little twist I've been planning on adding from the start, so here it is.

I know Sam's not really in this one, I tried to write him in, but this story basically revolves around Dean and John, so a brotherly moment just seemed a little off for this chapter. There was a prank being pulled on Sam behind the scenes, if that helps ;)

Enough with this gigentinc note, hope you enjoy the epilogue. Please review.

Warnings: Language. Also, contains SPOILERS from 'Hunted'.

* * *

Epilogue 

John stood in the doorway, watching his oldest son running sprints in the parking lot behind their house. It was past two in the morning, and Dean was still training. He'd been doing that a lot lately, training from dawn till… well, till John dragged his ass back home.

Two months had passed since California, since Death Valley, since the Leech dissipated. After a week of lying around, Dean had decided to start training again. That's when this all started. John watched his son sprint back and forth across the parking lot. He was fast, but not nearly as fast as he had once been.

John still wasn't sure what had happened in Racetrack Playa, what was taken from his son, but the results were becoming clear to the older hunter. Dean was different. He tried his best to hide it from his family, but it didn't change the fact that he was different.

He worked ten times as hard as he had before just to get the same results he used to get effortlessly. He wasn't as strong, wasn't as fast, and if anything, he had grown twice as stubborn. Dean simply refused to accept that he was different now. Maybe even refused to admit it to himself, John mused.

John worked him hard at first, thinking Dean's poor performance was the result of many weeks of lying in bed and neglecting his training. But surely, with the time and effort Dean had put into his training, he should have gotten better by now.

Unless he wasn't going to get any better.

It took John a long time to accept it.

Dean still refused to accept it.

John had spoken to him earlier that week, told him it was okay, that he had to take it down a notch, work less or he'll just end up in a hospital again. But Dean refused to listen. John tried to tell his son that he understood, that Dean could ease up a little, that they'll just get used to it and adjust. Dean took that the wrong way.

For some reason, the boy got it in his head that he had to get as fast and as strong as he had been, that not getting better meant he was a burden, that he wasn't pulling his own weight. That he wasn't good enough.

John wasn't good with the whole 'touchy-feely' stuff. He didn't do heart-to-heart. He did try to get it through his son's thick skull that he wasn't disappointed, that he didn't think any less of him. He had told Dean to give himself some slack, and that John was proud of him, but Dean refused to listen.

John sighed. He was tired, and _he_ wasn't the one running sprints in the dark parking lot. "Dean," he called out to the younger man. Dean finished his sprint and looked at his father, panting, drenched in sweat. _That couldn't be good for him, _John thought. The weather was still pretty cold, especially at night_. He'll just end up with pneumonia_. "Come on, champ. It's late. Lights out in thirty minutes." The older hunter said. Dean wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

"It's okay," he panted, "go ahead, I'll lock up when I'm done. I won't forget the salt." Dean said, trying to catch his breath.

"Dean, you have to stop." John said wistfully. "You'll work yourself to death, kiddo. Come on, get inside. I want you showered and in bed in half an hour, and that's after you had something to eat. That's an order." John said. Dean rolled his eyes, looking annoyed, and John sighed. "No less then six hours of sleep before you get out of bed." He added, "And I _will_ cuff you to the bed if I have to." The father threatened, getting back in the house.

* * *

Other than the physical stuff, and the psychological results of that, Dean was back to his old self. Or at least tried. He annoyed the hell out of his little brother, took care of his car, reluctantly helped researching more jobs and picked up chicks – that part seemed to work just fine, by the way. John could have lived with _that_ part getting a little slower. 

Life was back to normal in the Winchester household, which, of course, meant that John and Sam were done with the truce and were fighting each other again. And again, and again… But both did their best to try and convince Dean to just accept what had happened to him, learn to live with that. This was something they never fought over.

It bothered John, seeing Dean like that. It hurt to see his son this way, and it worried him. Dean was pushing himself to the limit and beyond. And that just made John angry. That witch was going to pay for what she's done. John would make sure of that.

He told his boys he was hunting a spirit in Jersey, left Dean in charge as he always had. But he didn't go to Jersey. He went to settle a score. No one hurts his family and gets away with it. Not if John had anything to say about it.

* * *

John cursed as he found himself in that same small room, with that familiar headache. That witch did have a way to catching him off guard, no matter how much he'd planned everything. He didn't even remember getting out of his truck. One moment he was sitting in the car, sipping cold coffee and watching the house, and the next minute he was here. _Damn witch_. He had enough ammunition in his truck for a small army. Unfortunately, it seemed whoever, or whatever, brought him here, wasn't polite enough to bring John's weapons along as well. 

John glared at the witch.

He was in the same room, he recognized it, but this time he was given a chair to sit in. And the door was open. Not that he was going anywhere, John figured. His journal was back in the truck, too. He didn't remember the ritual by heart, he needed the journal and the supplies he'd packed in case he needed to get rid of any possessed… _things_.

"John, John, John…" the witch clicked her tongue, watching him in amusement. "I didn't expect to see you back here." She said, crossing her arms over her chest. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" she asked, raising a thin brow. John glowered at her, scowling.

"I want you to leave my children alone! Whatever it is you're doing to my boy, you need to stop it!" John clipped, shooting daggers at the witch with his glare. The witch seemed surprised, though entertained.

"Stop what?" she asked, "Our deal was concluded. My business with Dean is over, I'm not doing anything to him." she said.

"He's done what you asked of him, stop hurting him!" John demanded, getting to his feet. _Wrong idea_, John thought as the world started swimming. He held onto the chair, but remained on his feet.

"I'm not, John." The witch said dryly. "I have no use for Dean anymore. Why would I waste any more of my time on him?" she asked. John scowled.

"Just stay away from him! That was the deal, wasn't it? He completes that stupid task and you leave him the hell alone!" he demanded.

"Oh, John, I'm offended. Don't you trust me?" the woman asked with a smirk. John glared at her. "The Leech is gone, is it not?" she asked. John crossed his arms over his chest, stretching to his full height as he glared at the witch, ignoring the other three men, _possessed men_, in the room. "Well, I assure you, John, I am not hurting your son. He's useless to me now, I wouldn't bother." She said, looking at the hunter with a small smile on her lips. "In fact, last I heard, he was doing rather well." She added, "You have a strong son, John. You should be proud. I've never heard of anyone outlasting a Leech for that long." She said seriously, and John's blood bubbled in anger.

How dare she talk about Dean like that? How _dare_ she?

"Well, are we done here, John?" the witch went on, "Because I do have things to do."

"That scepter. What did it do to him?" John demanded, but got no answer as the witch turned to leave the room. "If you ever harm my boy again, if you even think about it, I swear to God I will hunt you down, demonic protection or not, and I will make you wish you'd never even heard of me or my family. Do I make myself clear?" John threatened. The witch stopped, turned to look at him. She stared at him for a moment, a large smile blossoming on her lips, and then she laughed. If looks could kill, there would be nothing left of the woman to bury.

"Are you threatening me, John?" the woman asked.

"We had a deal!" John gritted out.

"Yes. And our business is over." she said, and the smile left her face, along with any sign of lightness. "But let me be clear, John." She said coolly, "You really, _really_ don't want to piss me off. Do you understand?" she asked, and John did his best not to wince at the sudden pressure in his chest, the sudden fire burning inside him, boiling his blood. "Now, before you say something else, I suggest you remember your children. You wouldn't want them to be orphans, would you?" she asked, the tone of her voice making chills run down the hunter's spine. "I will abide by my end of the deal." The woman went on, "Now, I suggest you leave this place while you still can. Forget you were here, forget I am here, or you _will_ regret it." She promised ominously. "I have no more interest in your son." She added after a pregnant pause.

John hesitated a few seconds more before he started towards the exit. There was nothing more he could do, not unarmed anyway, and certainly not without his journal. He shouldn't have come here alone. He won't next time. That witch's days were numbered, he thought as he stumbled across the street to his truck.

* * *

The woman watched John walk out of the house. She held up her hand, holding her men back. They wanted to rip him apart limb from limb, she could tell. She smiled, her eyes flashing yellow. 

"I have no more interest in your son, Winchester." The Demon possessed witch repeated, and her smile grew. "At least not _that_ son." She added.

"Should we go grab the Winchester boy?" one of the possessed men asked. She watched as John started his truck and pulled away. Too bad he didn't fight. The demon inside her hated this body. But this host had served It just fine for now. Demons don't really have physical bodies. Still, It usually chose a man's body.

"No." the Demon said, "I have all I need. For now."

"But I thought you needed the boy. You had plans for him." the man said, stopping himself from saying 'Father'. It was just too weird that his 'Father' was now possessing a woman's body. "He's the reason we came here, isn't he? The whole reason we lured the older one here. Because he's one of them, one of those special kids, isn't he?" the Demon smiled, turning to look at the man who spoke.

"Yes. And he will come to me. In time. He will lead my army." It said. The man looked at him quizzically, and the Demon smiled, walking down a hallway towards another room. It stopped, turned, smiling broadly.

"No human can survive a Leech for that long." It said, breathing deeply and exhaling slowly. "No mere human." It added, and its smile grew. "No, Dean Winchester was definitely more than just another human."

"The Guardian?" The man asked, and the Demon beamed.

"Not anymore." It said happily, "Amara always did have the best toys to play with." It smirked and opened the locked door. It was time for a new body. Finally, a male body. And a psychic at that. A horrified scream was heard. And then the door slammed closed and locked.

The End


End file.
